


A Promise of Salt and Smoke

by judypoovey, merrymegtargaryen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Do not repost, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Lyanna Lives AU, WILL BE UPDATING TAGS AS I GO ALONG, but it's asoiaf so what did you expect, honestly though how does one even tag for asoiaf, i promise i don't care, jon and dany don't end up together stop sending me hate about it, please stop commenting in general, some character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2020-11-23 18:54:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 114
Words: 251,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20894483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/judypoovey/pseuds/judypoovey, https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrymegtargaryen/pseuds/merrymegtargaryen
Summary: Lyanna survives the Tower of Joy and marries Robert. Jon is raised as Ned Stark's bastard, wanting for nothing. The realm knows only peace, until a red priestess of R'hllor comes to Lyanna, singing songs of the prince that was promised and a night without end.





	1. NED I

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, and welcome to another self-indulgent multichap by yours truly.
> 
> For those who haven't read my fic before, some notes: 
> 
> -While I predominantly follow the book canon, I do use the show to fill in the gaps or replace details I don't like. For example, everyone will be their show ages as opposed to their book ages, and because TWOW is probably never getting released (at the very least, not anytime soon), I will eventually have to use the show as a baseline. 
> 
> -like asoaas, I'm going to post as I write, which is slightly terrifying but also means I'm going to force myself to finish rather than let it sit abandoned in my drafts forever.
> 
> -I am not really interested in constructive criticism! I realize this is an unpopular opinion on this site where I post things for free but I'm really not! I'm not trying to improve as a writer or appeal to everyone who clicks on this fic, I'm honestly just trying to have fun and relieve stress. If I want concrit, I will ask for it. This is absolutely self-indulgence written for myself and if you happen to like it too, great! If not, hitting the back button is free and takes less effort than typing out the reasons why you didn't like it.
> 
> Okay? Okay!

_ “Promise me, Ned.” _

A twig snaps, drawing Ned from his memories. He opens his eyes, watching his lady wife come towards him. 

“All these years and I still feel like an outsider when I come here.”

“You have five northern children. You’re not an outsider,” he points out. 

“I wonder if the old gods agree.”

“It’s your gods with all the rules.”

Catelyn sits beside him, smoothing her skirts. “There was a raven from King’s Landing. Your sister is coming to visit.”

He looks at her, surprised. “Lyanna? Did she say why?”

“She did not, only that she was bringing her daughter. Robert will remain in King’s Landing.”

Ned sighs. “Perhaps they’ve fought again.”

It wouldn’t be the first time Lyanna took solace in Winterfell after a particularly nasty argument with Robert. She would stay here all the time if she could. But she is queen now, and her place is in the south with her husband.

Catelyn hesitates. “Ned...do you think it’s time she...tell Jon the truth?”

“I thought that,” he admits. “He’s nearly a man grown. I know he’s always wondered about his mother. But...it’s her truth to tell, and if she doesn’t want to…”

They sit in silence for a long moment, staring at the mirror surface of the spring. Seventeen years ago, Lyanna had disappeared with Rhaegar Targaryen. When Ned has found her, she’d been close to dying. He often thinks that it was her love for Jon that kept her alive more than anything else. 

“Promise me, Ned,” she’d begged.

Sixteen long years and he’s kept that promise. The whole realm believes that Jon is Ned’s own son, even Jon himself. Lyanna has never said whether she wants Jon to learn the truth or not. But to be fair, she says very little on the subject of Jon. She must, lest anyone grow suspicious. 

“She’ll ride hard,” Ned says abruptly. “She was never a patient woman. She’ll be here in a fortnight, maybe less. We should start preparing.”

Catelyn inclines her head. “I’ll speak to Poole.” She touches his shoulder. “It will be alright, Ned.”

He sighs. “She can’t run away every time Robert upsets her.”

“She’s only done it twice in sixteen years.”

“Thrice,” he corrects. “Thrice in seventeen years.”

“She always goes back to him,” Catelyn points out. “She knows her duty.”

He closes his eyes. “I sometimes wonder…” He trails off, uncertain. 

“Sometimes wonder what?” she prompts.

“I sometimes wonder if I did her a favor by bringing her home. If I ought not to have let her leave Westeros with Jon. Start a new life in Essos as an ordinary woman with no duties or responsibilities. I think she would’ve been happier that way.”

Catelyn is quiet for a long moment. “Dwelling on what might have been will only bring sorrow.”

“I know.” He squeezes her hand. “Thank you. You’re right. We must look ahead, not behind.”

But even as he and Catelyn return to the keep, he cannot help wondering if he did his sister wrong. 


	2. JON I

Jon watches Jory and the others bring in the wildling woman. A spearwife named Osha, she’s the only one of her pack to be brought in alive. The others had fought to their deaths, but the spearwife had thrown down her weapon and pled for mercy. Some might call that cowardice, but Jon calls it sense. 

“What do you think is happening?” he asks.

“What do you mean?” Robb responds, casting him a curious glance. “Wildlings got past the Wall.”

“But why did they want to?”

“It’s better here,” Theon says with his usual confidence. “The Wall is there to keep them out, but it’s never stopped them from trying.”

Robb sees his brother thinking. “You think it’s more than that.”

Jon takes a deep breath. “First Father executed that deserter from the Night’s Watch. Now, only weeks after, we catch wildlings in the woods. Don’t you think the two things might be related?”

“You think the Others are truly out there?” Theon sniggers.

“That man from the Watch knew what it meant to head south. So did those wildlings. Why else would they risk their own lives?”

The three boys are quiet for a long moment. 

“Uncle Benjen will be here soon,” Robb says at last. “Perhaps we can ask him.”

“They’re probably mad,” Theon asserts. “I’d go mad if I was in that barren wasteland my whole life.”

“Then let’s pray you never take the black,” Robb teases. 

Summer comes bounding along then, barking joyfully above. Jon doesn’t even have to look to know that the wolf sees his boy. He swears Bran spends half his life climbing. Lady Catelyn worries about him, but she’s the only one; Bran could climb the Wall itself without so much as a rope and not slip. He’s sure footed, and faster than any boy ought to be. 

“I saw them!” he crows now, climbing down the piping along the corner of the keep. “Aunt Lyanna and her company!” 

“Take care Mother didn’t see you,” Robb says, but he’s smiling. 

“She didn’t.”

The four boys proceed to the south gate, where the household is gathering. Lady Catelyn arranges her children just so, tsking when Jon moves to stand behind with Theon.

“No need to hide from your aunt, Jon, she loves you like all the rest.” She smiles at Jon, maneuvering him between Robb and Sansa. 

It’s not many women who would be as kind to their husband’s bastards as Catelyn Stark is to him. She treats him like one of her own children, seemingly content with his presence. She allows him to eat at the high table when they have guests, an honor few bastards would be allowed, and has spoken sharply to those who would mock him for his birth. 

It wasn’t always this way; he remembers when he was young, it felt as though she hated him. She’d never allow him near her, yet he had felt her cold gaze on him more than once. And then one day Aunt Lyanna came to visit and everything changed. Lady Catelyn became suddenly kinder, treating him the way she would one of her own children. 

He suspects Aunt Lyanna had said something to Lady Catelyn. He’d already liked his aunt, but the idea of her standing up for him even though she’s the queen and doesn’t have to think about bastards made his heart swell for her. He’s excited to see her now. 

Fifty armed men ride through the gate, among them three of the seven Kingsguard. Lyanna appears, black hair braided back...and at her side is a woman Jon has never seen before, nor is like to forget. Her hair, eyes, dress, and cloak are as red as the ruby that sits at her throat, and the alabaster of her skin only emphasizes the red. She’s beautiful and terrifying all at the same time, so much so that he barely notices Cassana, riding behind her mother. She is the very copy of Lyanna; only her eyes, a startling blue, belong to her father. 

Father and the others kneel when the queen dismounts, but she’s quick to have them standing again.

“You need never kneel to me,” she tells her brother sternly.

“You are the queen now, Your Grace.”

“I am still Lyanna Stark,” she says, loud enough for the yard to hear. “And this is my home. We need not stand on ceremony here.” She embraces Father before turning to Catelyn and kissing her cheek. Next is Robb, who she says is a strapping young man, and then it’s Jon’s turn. She gives him an unreadable look. “You look so like your father,” she says at last, and then moves to Sansa, who curtsies prettily and dimples at Lyanna’s praise. 

Cassana steps forward bashfully. 

“You’ve grown,” Jon says unnecessarily. 

“I was eight the last time you saw me,” she points out. “I’m twelve now.”

“Still. You’ve grown.”

“You haven’t,” she teases, laughing when he scowls. She flits over to Sansa and Arya, who can agree only on the fact that they like their cousin. Cassana, or Cassie, as they’ve taken to calling her, has an equal blend of good breeding and an underlying wildness that endears her to both Stark sisters. As of late, they’ve been fighting more and more, and Jon hopes that Cassie’s presence will mend the rift between them. 

“Ned,” Lyanna says after she has greeted all of the Starks, “this is Lady Melisandre, a red priestess of R’hllor.”

Jon doesn’t have to look to know his father is stiffening in disapproval. He only knows the old gods, and though he built a sept here for his lady wife, Jon knows Father mislikes other gods. 

“I did not know you have taken up new gods, sister.”

“There is only one god,” Lady Melisandre says in an accent rich with foreign lands. “The Lord of Light.”

“The Starks have worshipped the old gods for thousands of years,” Father says as politely as he is able. “But all men are welcome to worship as they please here.”

Lady Melisandre steps forward. She smells of incense, an intoxicating, heady sort of smell. “The night is dark and full of terrors, Lord Stark.”

“Yes, yes,” Lyanna says a bit impatiently. “Is Poole still your steward? Ah, there you are. Poole, I left some things in the capital, can you help me?” The adults move inside, Lyanna chattering. Jon moves to follow, but Cassie asks to see the direwolves, and the children take her to the godswood to see their pets. She squeals in delight as the enormous pups run circles around her, barking up a storm and barely able to hold still long enough for head scratches.

“How did you get them?” she asks, hugging Lady, who is by far the calmest of the litter. 

“We found them,” Robb explains. “We--well, Bran, Jon, Theon, and me--rode out with Father to execute a deserter from the Night’s Watch. On the way home, we found the pups. Their mother was dead, killed by a stag. There were six--one for each of us.”

“I wish there’d been seven,” Cassie says longingly. 

“What would you do with a wolf in King’s Landing?” Sansa teases. 

“Whatever I wanted,” Cassie says, stubborn. “Father would let me have a wolf if it pleased me. And besides, I’m half Stark. The direwolf is my mother’s sigil. Why shouldn’t I have a wolf of my own?”

“If any of them have pups, we’ll give you one,” Robb says, ever the diplomat. 

Cassie seems satisfied with that. 

“Cass, who is that woman with your mother?” Jon asks. “The red woman.”

Cassie rolls her eyes. “Melisandre. She’s from Asshai by the Shadow, and she worships a fire god. Thoros of Myr worships the same god, but Father never took him seriously. Melisandre’s different. Mother takes her seriously. She says things and they...happen.”

“What do you mean, they happen?” 

Cassie shakes her head. “Just wait. You’ll see.” She stands up, her dress muddied. “I want a hot bath.”

“We’ll take you to your room,” Sansa offers. “And you can tell us all about King’s Landing.” She and Arya link arms with their cousin, leading her into the castle. 

“What do you think Aunt Lyanna is doing with the red priestess?” Bran wonders as the boys follow.

“I can think of a few things I’d like to do with her,” Theon mutters so only Jon and Robb can hear.

“In your dreams, Greyjoy.”

.

Aunt Lyanna and her retinue are not the only visitors to Winterfell that night; the feast has barely begun before Benjen Stark rides through the gate, muddied with travel but gladly received by all. It’s been a long time since the siblings were all in the same place at the same time, and many toasts are made to health and to happiness. 

Jon waits until his uncle has had a few cups of ale to sidle up to him.

“Jon, you grow bigger every time I see you,” Benjen says warmly. “You’re nearly a man grown.”

“I’m sixteen,” he says, puffing out his chest.

“Like I said, nearly a man grown.” Benjen clinks his cup with Jon’s. “To your manhood.”

Jon flushes, and Benjen laughs uproariously. 

When his uncle has calmed down, Jon prods, “Did you know the deserter from the Night’s Watch Father executed?”

“Aye, I knew him,” Benjen says bluntly. 

“He said he saw the Others.”

Benjen grows grim. “That’s what I hear.”

“And then,” Jon persists, “just today, Jory found wildlings in the woods that had gotten past the Wall.”

“That happens,” Benjen acknowledges. “They get smarter and more determined with every passing year.”

“Uncle Benjen, what are they all so afraid of?”

Benjen takes his time answering. “Look, Jon, what you have to understand...it’s harsh up there. You see terrible things. Sometimes men get lost on a ranging, and when we find ‘em again, they’ve lost their wits. The mind can make up all sorts of things.”

“So you don’t think the Others are back?”

He hesitates. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I think there’s more beyond the Wall than you or I could comprehend,” he allows. “Maybe it’s the Others. Maybe it’s not. All I know is that we’re fools if we think we know everything that walks on this earth.”

The thought sends a shiver down Jon’s spine. 

“Put it behind you,” Benjen says, seeing the unease on his nephew’s face. “Whatever lurks above the Frostfangs has never come close to the Wall. Even if it did, the Wall is protected with magic that has long outlived its makers. Sleep soundly in your bed tonight, Jon; the Others aren’t coming for you anytime soon.” He pats Jon’s shoulder and walks off.

Still, Jon can’t help wondering what lies beyond the Wall as he goes to bed that night. Could brothers of the Night’s Watch and wildlings alike fear their own madness more than death? Is it their own madness that makes them flee south? Or is everyone else mad to ignore their fear?

Shivering, he draws the furs up around his shoulders and tries not to think about what lurks above the Frostfangs.

.

The castle is quiet in the morning, slow to wake after the festivities the night before. Jon finds it soothing; he takes Ghost for a walk around the yard, enjoying the peace and quiet of the early, grey morning.

He’s surprised to find Bran and Theon in the yard, the older boy showing the younger how to aim his arrows. He remembers the day they’d found the wolves, how he and Robb and Rickon had been watching Bran and laughing whenever he missed the target. Theon, he is shamed to see, does not laugh; he is patient with Bran, and more serious than Jon’s ever seen him. Bran’s arrows stray closer and closer to the target until he has exhausted all of them.

“I want to hit a bullseye,” Bran complains when Theon plucks the arrows from the board.

“You will someday. It takes practice and patience. Besides, your fingers are getting stiff, and I’ll bet your arms are, too.”

“Only a little,” Bran mumbles. 

Theon tousles the younger boy’s hair. Jon’s never known him to be kind to Bran. Not that Theon was ever unkind to him, or any of the Starks, but his is an awkward place. He was raised in Father’s home alongside his children, but he is the son of a traitor, and one wrong move on his father’s part could get Theon killed. Jon had never really liked him, and though Bran never said it, he was sure the younger boy felt the same.  _ But we kept laughing at Bran, and Theon, for all his smiles, won’t. _

As if sensing his gaze, Bran looks up, flushing. “I’m getting better,” he says defensively.

Jon feels a pang of guilt at that. “You are,” he acknowledges. “Theon’s right, it takes practice and patience.”

Theon gives him that infuriating smile. “Jon.”

“Theon.”

“Jon,” a new voice calls, and they look up to see Father coming towards them. 

“My aim is getting better,” Bran says proudly. 

Father smiles. “Good. Soon we’ll have you on the ramparts defending us from the White Walkers.” He turns to Jon, lowering his voice. “Your aunt is waiting for you in the godswood.”

“My aunt?” Jon repeats, perplexed. 

“She’ll explain everything.” Father hesitates. “Son…” He stops himself. 

“What is it?”

Father struggles to find the words. “I love you. I hope you always know that.”

Jon stares at him. “What—“

“Go.”

Feeling oddly as if he’s in some kind of trouble, Jon makes for the godswood, Ghost padding along beside him. What could his aunt possibly want to speak to him about? Why him, of all of them? Is it because he’s a bastard? Had he overstepped? 

All too quickly, he’s reached the godswood, the greenery giving way to the lone heart tree. Alabaster white and blood red, the heart tree watches him draw closer through weeping eyes.

Aunt Lyanna sits before it, hands folded in her lap as she gazes at the pool. She looks up at Jon’s approach, and he’s surprised to see that her eyes are red. Had she indulged overmuch in the wine last night? Or is this something else?

“Jon,” she says, her voice rough. She clears her throat, motioning for him to sit beside her. “Come. We have...much...to discuss.”

“Did I do something wrong, Aunt Lyanna?”

“Wrong? Gods, no.” She pats the tree trunk. “Sit, my boy.”

He does, only slightly more at ease. He’s not in trouble...but then what?

She reaches for his hand, clasping both of hers around it. “Jon, I need to tell you something...very difficult. And it’s all going to sound strange, but I need you to hear me out before you say anything. Can you do that?”

He nods, more confused than ever. 

She takes a deep breath. “Jon...Ned Stark is not your father.”


	3. LYANNA I

Jon stares at her as she explains everything to him; who his father really was, how he came to be born, how Ned had offered to take him north and raise him as his own while she married Robert and became queen. For sixteen long years, she’s thought about this moment, seen it in her sleep. She used to know exactly what to say and how to say it. Afterward, they would embrace as mother and son, and all would be well.

All is not well. Jon is not happy to receive the news, and all the carefully planned speeches Lyanna wrote in her head are falling apart. She keeps stumbling around the words, trying to find the right ones and wishing desperately she’d put more thought into this. 

“If Robert knew that I’d had a son with Rhaegar, he would have killed you,” she says now, reaching tentatively for his hand and wincing when he recoils. “It wasn’t what I wanted, Jon. But Robert led an entire rebellion to get me back. He turned a blind eye when Tywin Lannister killed your brother and sister. What do you think he would have done to you?”

Jon looks away. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers in a cracked sort of voice. “I thought...about leaving with you. Going to Essos. But Ned convinced me to stay here. He offered to raise you as his own, so no one would be the wiser and I could see you whenever I wanted. I liked that. I thought you’d be happy here, raised among your family.”

Jon gets up, pacing up and down in front of her. She wonders if she’s made a terrible mistake. Perhaps she should have left him be, blissful in his own ignorance. Ned would have done well for him, would have found him a position at Winterfell or serving another lord, and he would have ensured that Jon wanted for nothing. He has for sixteen years. 

“Are you angry?” she asks softly, feeling sixteen herself again.

Jon takes a deep breath. “I don’t know. I don’t know how I feel.” He looks up at her, and she sees tears in his eyes.

“Oh, sweetling,” she murmurs, getting up and going to him. He buries his face in her shoulder, his own shoulders heaving as he cries into her neck. She wraps her arms around him, stroking his fine curls and murmuring soothing noises. He’s nearly a man grown, but he is still her baby, even now. 

“All this time,” he manages. “You were trying to protect me. Even after Rhaegar...my father...even after he took you and…”

“Loving Rhaegar was a mistake,” she admits. “I thought we were going to be free. Instead, he locked me away in a tower until I conceived his child, and then he left me to have you alone.” Even now, she can feel the cold terror she’d felt in those days. The Tower of Joy, they called it...but there was no joy to be found. She remembers the Kingsguard standing watch outside her tower, remembers how they’d refused to let her leave. Only Wylla was allowed to come and go, and even then she had to take a knight with her. She would bring food and wine and herbs to soothe her mistress, and sometimes news from the north. None of it was ever good.

Jon pulls back to look at her. “You were running away from Robert...but you married him anyway.”

She gives him a wry smile. “What choice did I have? After he’d razed half the kingdom for me and killed Rhaegar...I couldn’t have said no.”

“You could’ve run away,” Jon says, his voice strained. “You could have taken me to Essos.”

“And do what?” she asks, not unkindly. “I had no money, no jewels to sell. All I had were the bloodied clothes on my back and an infant I didn’t know how to care for. I couldn’t have afforded passage across the Narrow Sea, let alone lodgings when we docked.”

“Father would have helped you,” he says stubbornly. “If you had only asked.”

“He already did,” she reminds him. “He sullied his own honor to claim you as a bastard even though he’d never known another woman.”

“But he didn’t have to--”

“Jon,” she says gently. “This is what we thought was best. I daresay you are happier this way, raised with a pack of brothers and sisters I never could’ve given you if we’d gone to Essos. You were raised as a lord’s son, afforded more privileges than most.”

Jon looks away. “So why are you telling me now?”

She takes a deep breath. “This part will be hard to believe.”

He snorts. “Harder than what you’ve already told me?”

“If you can believe it.”

He shrugs. “Alright.”

She takes another deep breath, wondering how to explain this all to him. “The circumstances of your birth...well, they were no coincidence.”

He looks at her, curious. “What do you mean?”

“I thought for a long time that Rhaegar loved me. And truly, I think he did love me in his own way. But that wasn’t why he ran away with me. He could have kept me as his mistress if that was all he was after. But he ran away with me and sired a child on me and married me in front of a septon.”

“He  _ married _ you?”

“It never would have held up if challenged, especially as Elia had already given him two healthy heirs, one of whom was a son. It was more ceremonial than anything. It was enough to convince the Kingsguard that our child was trueborn and therefore worthy of their protection.”

Jon considers this. “But I’m still a bastard.”

“That depends on who you ask, I imagine.”

“What if I asked you?”

She takes his hand. “I don’t know the answer to that question myself. And...it doesn’t matter.”

He withdraws his hand. “It doesn’t  _ matter _ ?”

“Jon, something far bigger is happening, bigger than whatever surname you truly have. Benjen tells me that Ned killed a deserter a few weeks back, a man who claimed he’d seen the Others. Just yesterday, Jory told me they’d captured wildlings in the Wolfswood. They weren’t raiding, weren’t bothering anyone. Only one of them threw down her spear, and when asked what she was doing here, she said she was going ‘as far south as south goes.’”

Jon stills at that, his eyes widening. “You think they’re real, too. The Others.”

“I used to think they were a bedtime story Old Nan told us to frighten us,” she admits. “But the Lady Melisandre...has offered a different point of view.”

Jon stiffens. “Do you worship her god now?”

“I don’t worship him...but I cannot deny his power. Melisandre has...seen things. Things that no one else could know. I didn’t take her seriously until she came to me and told me that you were my son. There was no way she could have known that, Jon.” She takes her son’s hand again. “Jon, have you heard of Azor Ahai?”

He looks at her dubiously. “No.”

“Azor Ahai was a great hero who forged the sword Lightbringer. It is said that in time of need, he will be reborn as the prince that was promised.”

Jon shivers. “The prince that was promised?”

“Listen to me. Rhaegar believed that his son Aegon was the prince that was promised. He also believed that the dragon has three heads...he kept saying it, over and over. I think he wanted you to be a girl, so he’d have his own Aegon, Rhaenys, and Visenya. But Rhaenys and Aegon died. You’re Rhaegar’s only surviving child...and one of three Targaryens left in the world.”

Jon’s eyes widen. “One of three…”

“Viserys and Daenerys are across the sea.” Her grip tightens. “Robert’s spies report that Daenerys married a Dothraki  _ khal _ . He commands one of the mightiest  _ khalasars _ in Essos. Forty thousand men and their horses. Robert is terrified. The Dothraki are the fiercest warriors in the world. If forty thousand of them crossed the Narrow Sea, they would bring the Seven Kingdoms to their knees. Aegon is dead, but there are still three of you. Three heads of the dragon.”

Jon is visibly shaken. “You want us...to retake the Seven Kingdoms?”

“Yes. Because the Others are coming, Jon. They’re coming, and if they get past the Wall, there’s no stopping them. The Night’s Watch is manned by a few dozen old men and boys; they’ll never stand a chance against the combined forces of the Others. That’s why you need to bring your aunt and uncle here and command the armies of Westeros to march north and defeat the Others. Maybe you’re the prince that was promised. Maybe it’s Viserys or Daenerys. Maybe it was Aegon all along. Maybe there is no prince that was promised after all. It doesn’t matter now, and it won’t matter if they get past the Wall and kill every man, woman, and child in Westeros.”

Jon shivers again, jerking back his hand to wrap his arms around himself. “That...how can that be?”

“I don’t know,” she confesses. “But you’ve heard Old Nan’s stories. When the last hero defeated the Others, he didn’t kill all of them, only pushed them back, and then built the Wall to keep them out. They were always going to come back. The last hero knew it. The Children of the Forest knew it. They tried to warn us, too. But the Children disappeared and all living memory faded to dust, and all that was left were stories told by wetnurses.”

They’re quiet for a long moment, contemplating the last eight thousand years. She wonders if Jon is as afraid as she is. 

But then he turns to her, determination on his face. “What do you need me to do?”

She grips his shoulders, fiercely proud. “I need you to go to Essos and find Viserys and Daenerys. I need you to convince them to bring their army here, unite the armies of the Seven Kingdoms, and march north to defeat the Others once and for all.”

“I’ll do it,” he says, but he hesitates.

“What is it?”

“Will I go alone?”

“I’ll send men with you,” she assures him. “I would hide your true identity until you get to know them--Robert has spies all around.”

He looks mournfully past her. “So I have to leave Ghost.”

Her eyes follow his gaze to the snow-white, red-eyed wolf. “I would. The Dothraki Sea is no place for a direwolf of the North. Let your father look to him.”

Jon’s lips twist in a wry smile. “He told us that the pups would be our responsibility and he wouldn’t help us care for them.”

“I think he’d understand.”

Jon looks at her. “Does he know? That you’re sending me east?”

“He does.” That hadn’t been an easy conversation. Though it was she who gave birth to Jon, it was Ned who raised him all those years. He hadn’t wanted to part with his son, birthed or not, and she can hardly blame him for that. But, she suspects, they are all going to do things they don’t want to do in the coming months. 


	4. NED II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, good? Bad? Mixed? News?
> 
> So, as I currently do not have a laptop/computer and likely won't get one until Christmas at the earliest, I have been using my work computer to write/update this fic. Good news is, I got a new job that's exactly what I wanted! Bad news is, it will probably mean I can't write/update from my new job. But my stepdad is giving me his old iPad so? Maybe? I will be able to write/update from home? idk, I've never tried it from an iPad before.
> 
> Anyway! On with the show!

Arya’s crying. He can hear it through her door, her wails of grief as she mourns the abrupt departure of her brother. He can hardly blame her for it; there’s been an ache in his chest ever since Lyanna asked to speak with Jon. The lad had only left this morning, sad but determined. 

_ He may be Rhaegar’s son, but he’s a Stark to his core. _

He closes the solar door behind him, setting down the fresh bottle of wine. He could have sent a servant for it, but he hadn’t wanted to disturb them, or for them to disturb the small gathering. 

Lyanna’s eyes are still red, but her tears seem to have stopped; she’s petting Ghost now, her hands rhythmically stroking the soft white fur. Catelyn gets up from beside her, refreshing their cups. Benjen holds a hand over his, shaking his head.

“Too sweet for me, I’m afraid. I’ll stay with my ale, thanks all the same.”

“As you will.” 

“What if I’ve made a mistake?” Lyanna asks, and the tears start afresh. 

“You haven’t made a mistake,” Ned says firmly...but in truth, he wonders the same. He believes Lyanna believes the red woman, but does  _ he _ believe the red woman? He doesn’t know. The red priestess has been lurking in Winterfell ever since she arrived, staring into flames or smiling mysteriously at any bold enough to look at her. He’s instructed his own children to give her a wide berth, but he knows for a fact that Sansa dragged Jeyne Poole to ask the red woman for their fortunes.

“She told us our fortunes lie with the sea,” Sansa had finally admitted. “Where the stars fall and grow dark.”

A lot of nonsense, in his opinion.

“He’s only a boy, and the Dothraki are bloodthirsty. If he dies…”

“You sent five men to escort him to Vaes Dothrak,” Benjen reminds his sister. “And Jorah Mormont is expecting him.”

“Jorah Mormont has no honor,” Ned says coldly.

“No honor, aye, but he’s desperate for a royal pardon. He’ll take care of Jon, have no fear on that count.”

“Will they accept him?” Lyanna wonders aloud. “Viserys and Daenerys?”

“He’s Rhaegar’s son, I’m sure they will.”

“What if Viserys is threatened by him?” she persists. “What if he sees Jon as a threat to his crown?”

“No septon would ever sanction your marriage to Rhaegar,” Catelyn says firmly. “And I’m  _ sure _ Viserys and Daenerys would be happy to see another Targaryen. They are all alone in this world, and they all want the same thing: to take back the Seven Kingdoms.”

Lyanna relaxes, but only a little. “I suppose you’re right.”

“What will you do?” Benjen asks softly. “When they come? You’re married to the one they call the Usurper.”

“Jon would never see her hurt,” Ned speaks up. 

“Aye, but what are you going to do? Present Robert’s neck for them to cut? What about your daughter?”

“Benjen,” Catelyn says warningly, but they all know that it’s a truth Lyanna will have to face sooner or later.

“I don’t know,” Lyanna admits. “I don’t love Robert, nor do I wish him dead. And Cassie...my one consolation is that she’s a daughter, and no woman has sat the Iron Throne in her own right. She is Jon’s sister, whatever may happen, and I can only hope he’ll look after her.”

“He will,” Ned says. “He’s a good lad.”

Lyanna gives him a small smile. “You raised him well.”

“I tried.”

She leans back in her chair, drinking deeply from her wine. “Why don’t you come to court?” she asks when she reemerges.

The question surprises Ned, more for its abruptness than anything. “I don’t know.”

“You should,” she urges. “All of you. Robert is in need of a new squire; Bran is old enough, is he not?”

“He is of an age,” Catelyn agrees. “And I believe he would find King’s Landing exciting.” She lays her hand over Ned’s. “We should all go. Robb is old enough to marry now, and Sansa will be too before long. We should find matches for the children, and where better to do it than in the capital?”

Ned considers her words. She’s right, on all counts. The south would be good for the children. They could find matches for Robb and Sansa and even Arya, and see Bran settled as he begins squiring for Robert. Even Rickon and Theon would enjoy King’s Landing and all its distractions. Cat could see her sister again, the first time since Lysa’s child was a babe. And he could spend more time with Robert and Lyanna and Jon Arryn, who he hasn’t seen in years.

“Perhaps,” he allows. “Though...there must always be a Stark in Winterfell.”

“Oh, Winterfell will be fine,” Lyanna dismisses. “Leave Maester Luwin and Poole in charge while you’re here--that’s their job, anyway. It’s only a visit, Ned, not an invitation to stay forever.”

“We should go,” Catelyn says softly. 

“Benjen will come too,” Lyanna continues.

“I will?”

“Sure. The Night’s Watch is always coming to King’s Landing to recruit men.”

“I’m First Ranger; my place is north of the Wall,” he reminds his sister. “Besides, Yoren has not yet returned from his own journey south to collect recruits.”

“Well, maybe he needs help.” Ignoring Benjen’s eye-roll, she looks expectantly at Ned. “Well? What do you say?”

“Let me have a few days to think, Lya,” he says with an exasperated sort of chuckle. “It’s not as easy as all that, to up and head south with my whole family.”

_ “We’ll go,” _ Catelyn mouths to Lyanna.

Ned has a feeling it’s well out of his hands.

.

True enough, he’s barely climbed into bed beside Cat when she brings it up. 

“We should accept your sister’s invitation, Ned.”

He sighs, easing his body onto the mattress. “It’s no quick jaunt across the kingdom, my love. Nearly a month there, nearly a month back, and at least a month at the capital itself so as not to offend.”

“Lyanna’s right; Maester Luwin and Poole will handle it just fine. You could even name a regent to run your affairs while we’re away, if it worries you so much. Cerwyn is but a half day’s ride, I’m sure Lord Cerwyn would be more than happy to visit from time to time and see that all is well.”

She makes a good point, but still, Ned’s heart is uneasy. 

“We’re hidden away up here,” she continues, softer. “It’s alright to get out once in a while. To see the world. Our children should see it, at any rate.”

He sighs. “Yes, but--”

“What, Ned? What are you so afraid of?”

He doesn’t know. He can’t quite place it, this fear he has. They are at peace now, led by a king who has not a tyrannical thought in his head; and he, in turn, is ruled by one of the most just Hands that ever served. So what is he afraid of, really? 

“I’ll think about it,” he allows at last. “I’ll want to prepare before it happens. If it happens.”

“Of course.”

He hesitates. “I think you are right. About Robb and Sansa. We cannot marry all of our children to Northerners.”

“No, we cannot,” she agrees. 

“And Bran would love King’s Landing. So many walls for him to climb.”

“ _ Ned _ .” 

He smiles despite himself. “Sorry.” He wraps an arm around her and considers. Perhaps going to King’s Landing isn’t as unpleasant as he imagines. He’s only been a handful of times, most of those when he was young. His children will love the capital, with all its glittering distractions. There will be girls aplenty for Robb and Theon to ogle and flirt with. Songs and tourneys for Sansa. Curiosities from exotic lands for Arya to discover. All the walls and rooftops Bran could hope to climb. And play mates for Rickon and all his boundless energy. Yes, they’ll love the capital.

_ But Lyanna loved the south, too, and nearly died for it. Can I let my children suffer the same? _

.

Lyanna’s visit lasts for a month. Ned suspects it would last longer had a raven not come for her from King’s Landing. 

“Robert is desirous I return,” she sighs, rolling up the paper. 

“He is your husband,” Ned says gently.

Her smile is wry. “My husband, aye; and what’s more, my king. Robert commands, and I obey.”

“He loves you.”

“No he doesn’t,” she says bluntly. “The idea of me, maybe, but not me. Not really.” She shakes her head. “It matters not. I’ve stayed long enough. I’ll send a raven back, telling him that I’m heading home with our daughter. She’s enjoyed herself here, Ned. She loves her cousins.”

Ned smiles. He’s observed Cassie always in the company of one or the other of his daughters, if not both at the same time. It’s rare indeed to have Sansa and Arya making peace of their own accord, and some part of him fears they’ll go back to their bickering once Cassie leaves.  _ All the more reason to visit King’s Landing. _

“They love her, my girls especially. I can’t remember the last time they were so sweet to each other.”

“Gods, you call that sweet?”

He laughs. “Well, they’re not trying to kill each other, so yes, I call that sweet. War was easier than daughters, I think.”

“Probably for the best that Cassie’s my only daughter.”

They’re quiet for a moment, each wondering if they should say something further. It’s Ned who breaks the silence.

“Do you wish for more children?” he asks softly.

She sighs. “Yes and no. I was desperate for another child after Jon. I knew it might kill me, but...I wanted one so badly. I waited a few years and thought, maybe I’d healed and I could have children again. And then Cassie came along and we both nearly died. Pycelle told me I wouldn’t survive another child...and I made my peace with it. I knew there was no point in longing for a child I couldn’t have. And that’s alright; Cassie is my whole world.”

Not for the first time, Ned feels some guilt for depriving her of her firstborn. Taking Jon had been his suggestion, and she had agreed, but he sometimes feels that maybe she hadn’t felt as if she was allowed to disagree. Maybe she was so used to men telling her what to do that she hadn’t felt as if she had a choice. It troubles him, and after Lyanna excuses herself to write a reply to Robert, he heads for the godswood to ease his conscience. He’s so lost in thought that it isn’t until he’s well in the godswood that he hears the ringing of steel on steel. 

_ In the godswood? _

Curious, he moves forward quietly, and is startled to find Arya and Cassie sparring with thin blades forged of good steel. These are no practice swords; these are true swords tailored to their size. It’s clear that they’ve been watching the boys at work; they move clumsily but with determination, huffing and puffing as steel meets steel over and over again.

Ned watches for a long moment before clearing his throat. The two girls nearly drop their swords in fright, looking up at him with wide eyes and flushed cheeks.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

Arya looks guiltily at her sword. Cassie manages a blank look, as if she doesn’t quite understand.

“Where did you get those?” he tries.

“They were gifts,” Arya says softly.

“From whom? Let me see.”

Arya grips her sword nervously. 

“I won’t take them,” he reassures her. Relaxing, she holds out her sword for him to inspect. He’s surprised to find Mikken’s mark. So, the smith made these without his knowledge. “Who gave these to you?”

“Jon did,” Cassie admits. “He left the instructions with the smith, and he gave them to us when he was finished.”

_ Ah. _ So that explains it. A parting gift, from Jon to his favorite sister and the sister he’d never known was his. He’d left so suddenly that he probably hadn’t had the chance to tell them all he wanted to say. He probably hadn’t known how to say it.  _ And if all goes aught, he’ll never see them again. _

“I see.”

“Can we keep them?” Arya asks with an anguished sort of expression.

Ned can’t help but smile. “Of course you can. But banging away at each other like that is no way to swordfight. I’ll have Ser Rodrik train with you.”

The girls gasp in excited astonishment. 

“Not a word of this to anyone else,” he warns. “It’ll be our secret, alright?”

“Yes,” they say eagerly. 

He smiles again and ruffles Arya’s hair. “Go on and get changed for dinner before your mother sees you.”

The girls race back to the keep, Nymeria bounding after them. 

“Soon, every man, woman, and child will have a sword in their hands.”

Ned turns to see the red woman. Her presence startles him; he hadn’t seen or heard her until now. How long has she been watching? Why is she here, in the godswood?

“Lady Melisandre,” he says coldly. “I did not think to find you here.”

“I have never set foot in a godswood before,” she says pleasantly. “There are none in Asshai, and very few in the south. I am told this is one of the finest.”

He’s rankled by that. “We do not measure godswoods by their finery like septs of the Seven.”

“No, I suppose not,” she allows. “You have no priests, no acolytes...only trees with carved faces.”

“I will thank you not to mock me, Lady Melisandre.”

She bows her head, but there’s a mocking smile on her face all the same. “I apologize, Lord Stark. I did not mean to offend. I only find your faith...curious. I have come across many faiths in my travels. Gods, temples, priests and priestesses, laws and holy days, weddings and sacrifices. Many seem different on the surface, but when you look closer, they’re all the same gods, just wearing different masks. The old gods, though...there is none of the pageantry as the other gods. Your gods have no names, your places of worship are a cluster of trees. There are no priests and priestesses, no holy men. Queen Lyanna tells me that there are some rituals associated with the old gods, but they vary from one house to the next.”

Ned shifts uncomfortably. He detects no insult from the red woman, but then what is he to make of her? “That is true, my lady.”

She takes a step closer, and Ned fights the urge to take a step back. “And your gods, do they speak of events past and events to come?”

He’s completely unnerved now. “They speak differently to each person, my lady. But most men turn to them for guidance or assurance, not...making sense of the past or future.”

She tilts her head to the side. “Then why do you mistrust me so? I speak of Azor Ahai, your last hero before the Dawn Age. I speak of Azor Ahai reborn, the prince that was promised. Yet you do not believe me.”

Ned takes a deep breath. “You say that you have come across many faiths in your travels, my lady, and that if you look closely, they are all the same. Your red god is but one of many gods. Everyone thinks their god is the right god. Until I see something that shakes my faith, I will worship no gods but the old gods.”

A mysterious smile plays upon the red woman’s face. “If seeing is believing, then you will see soon enough, Lord Stark.” She bows her head again, gathering her skirts. “The night is dark and full of terrors. But the fire burns them all away.”

Despite the summer air, Ned feels a chill run down his spine.


	5. JON II

“Jon. We’re here.”

Jon groans, rolling over to push his face into the sorry excuse for a pillow. “Where’s ‘here’?”

They’ve been sailing for gods know how many weeks, him and the men his mother sent with him. From White Harbor to Braavos, Braavos to Lorath, Lorath to Morosh, Morosh to…

“New Ibbish.”

Jon sits up. His geography was never excellent, but he knows that New Ibbish is the last port on their journey. From here they only need to ride to Vaes Dothrak. 

He throws off the blankets, stumbling to the water basin. It’s tepid, but better than nothing; he splashes it onto his face, willing himself to wake faster. It should only be a matter of days now before they reach Vaes Dothrak, and in it, his family. 

_ His family.  _ It still seems strange to think that the last Targaryens are his family, because  _ he’s _ one of the last Targaryens. Sixteen years a Stark, and now he’s a Targaryen. 

_ A Targaryen bastard, anyway.  _

His father may have married his mother, but in truth, he had no right. Rhaegar was married to Elia Martell, and he had two children, including a son, from her. The High Septon would have never granted him release from that marriage.

_ And my father knew it, too. That’s why he married my mother in secret. _

His mother. All his life, he’d tried to imagine her, but he never could. He didn’t know anything about her; whether she was highborn or low, dark or fair, happy or sad. He couldn’t imagine why his father had taken him away from her and forbidden anyone to speak of her. 

And to think, all this time, it was Aunt Lyanna. Aunt Lyanna is his mother, and Ned Stark isn’t his father after all. Even now, weeks after she told him, he still has trouble wrapping his mind around it. He’s a  _ Targaryen _ , the blood of the dragon. 

But will his fellow Targaryens accept him? 

They’re all that’s left of their family, it’s true, and one would think they’d be happy to meet a nephew they never knew existed. But what if they are as suspicious as their father, Aerys? What if they see Jon as a threat and want him dead?

He’ll just have to hope that he can win them over as Jon the bastard before he reveals himself as Jon the Targaryen. And maybe by the time he reveals his true name, they’ll like him too much to kill him.

.

His mother sent five men with him, and they’ve lost one at every port. At first Jon had thought they were abandoning him, but at Morosh, Hugh told him that they’d only been asked to go so far. Less likely to attract attention. If spies report sometimes three men, sometimes four, sometimes only two, it will give their reports less credibility. 

“But who would be spying on me?” Jon had asked.

Hugh had only shrugged. “Anyone, if they thought they might get something out of it.”

Sure enough, Tomard leaves them at New Ibbish. Hugh buys horses for him and Jon, and together, they set out for Vaes Dothrak.

Jon has only caught glimpses of the other cities in which they’d made port, but he’d never lingered in any of them. He’d seen men and women of every size, shape, and color, garbed in dyed silks and striped and spotted furs. Somehow, Old Nan’s stories had never quite prepared him for the world across the sea. 

_ Probably because Old Nan has never left Winterfell either.  _

He cannot keep from twisting and turning in his saddle, taking in all the new sights as they pass through the port city. It seems strange to think it, but in all his sixteen years, he’s never once left the North, and one place in the North is much like the next. There are no dyed purple silks in the North, no striped furs, no men with more jewelry in their face than there are stars in the sky. It excites him to be in this strange place. He can’t wait to tell his brothers and sisters about all that he’s seen. 

_ His brothers and sisters.  _ His cousins, in truth, but he thinks they will always be his brothers and sisters. He’s grown up alongside all of them and loves them more than anyone else. What will happen when he comes back with two Targaryens and a Dothraki army in tow? Will they still think of him as their brother? Or will he be someone else to them, a conqueror from afar?

.

Though the days get hotter as they travel farther south, the nights remain cold. He and Hugh bundle up when they sleep outside, which happens more and more as they pass out of New Ibbish and move closer and closer to Vaes Dothrak. Hugh makes Jon cover his head and arms, even when it’s boiling; the one time Jon defies him, his skin becomes red and tender, and even the smallest movements hurt. Hugh spends a long and aggravating time trying to buy a salve for it in the next market they find, but he gets nowhere because he only speaks the Common Tongue and the woman does not; finally, he yanks up Jon’s sleeve, and the medicine woman cackles in amusement before selecting a bottle. The salve helps soothe his skin, but not his dignity. 

It’s good they find the market when they do, because it isn’t long before there’s nothing around them but wasteland. Occasionally they meet other travelers heading to or from the Dothraki city, but Hugh never talks for long. 

“You still think someone’s after me?” Jon asks. “Even now? Even here?”

“Oh,  _ especially _ now and here. Daenerys Targaryen is pregnant with Khal Drogo’s child; all she has to do now is deliver a son and the Dothraki horde will descend on the Seven Kingdoms.”

Jon whips his head to look at Hugh, but the other man only gives him a grim smile. “You think I can’t put two and two together?”

“Are you going to tell anyone?”

“Gods, no. Your aunt hired me for many reasons, my discretion among them. No, I don’t want part of the wars to come. I’ll take the nice fat purse she gave me and wait out the storm in a brothel someplace.”

Jon swallows. “So you...believe the Targaryens are the true kings of Westeros?”

“Does it matter? Robert Baratheon took the Iron Throne by right of conquest, as did Aegon the Conqueror before him. Lordlings will justify it any way they can, who sits on the throne and who doesn’t, but at the end of the day, strength is always a greater determiner than blood.”

Jon hadn’t known Daenerys was with child, but he supposes Hugh overheard it in one of the port cities.  _ Or he’s lying to learn something from me. _ But he doesn’t think that. Hugh seems trustworthy, though he’s half a stranger.  _ My mother wouldn’t have chosen him if he wasn’t to be trusted, would she? _

“How did you come to be in my aunt’s service, anyway?” he asks.

Hugh shrugs. “I’m a sellsword. I do most anything for coin.”

“Is that your only loyalty? To coin?”

Hugh chuckles. “Sneer all you want, boy, but there are far worse things to be loyal to. Coin never betrays me. You think I ought to have honor and serve your aunt because I’m loyal to House Baratheon. Yet here I am, escorting her nephew to meet the Targaryens. Where is your aunt’s honor?”

Jon feels his cheeks flush. “Don’t talk about her honor.”

“I won’t, if you’ll leave mine out of it. Not all of us have rich daddies and aunties who raised us with everything we could ever want.”

Jon flushes again, but he holds his tongue, because he knows Hugh speaks the truth. Even though he was raised a bastard, he was still raised a  _ lord’s _ bastard. He had more than most. Does he really have room to judge the reasons another man might choose money over honor?

_ Father was always honorable, but Father was always a lord. Would he be so honorable if he’d had no money and no titles? _

Father had once explained to him that the highborn must protect the low, that they must set an example to those in their service. Father was honorable so that those in his service would be honorable. Jon is honorable because that is what his father taught him to be. Would he be half so honorable if he’d been born like this sellsword, into a common family with no surname? 

Suddenly he feels ashamed. Of course he wouldn’t be. He’s lucky to have what he’s had, and it’s his great privilege and his great flaw to look down on those who are less fortunate. 

_ I won’t anymore,  _ he decides stubbornly.  _ I will try to make the world a better place. But first, I have to save it.  _

.

He sees the horses rearing long before they reach the city itself. Bronze stallions, their hooves meet high in the sky, and the people passing beneath them seem like ants. 

“The Dothraki aren’t known for creating their own statues,” Hugh remarks. Others are heading to the city, too, and they narrow into a long stream as they get closer. “They pride themselves on taking other men’s things. Even their buildings were constructed by slaves, who learned the art from their own countries. The stallions are the only statues in Vaes Dothrak not stolen or gifted from other lands; these were built by slaves. The statues you see on the road into the city, however…”

As they move into the city itself, the air loud with the pounding of hooves and the guttural growl of Dothraki, Jon sees mismatched statues lining the road. Some of them he vaguely recognizes, others he does not. 

“This road is called the godsway, so named because it is lined with the gods the Dothraki have taken from conquered cities.”

Everything Jon hears about the Dothraki makes him afraid. They seem a harsh, unkind people, more likely to cut his throat than offer him help. But Hugh will not leave his side until they’ve found Jorah Mormont, and that’s a small comfort. 

Jon knows very little about Jorah Mormont, save that he would be lord of Bear Island but for some trouble some years ago. Jon still doesn’t know what it was, but he does know it was bad enough that Jorah had to flee the country. And now he’s here, in the service of the Targaryens. 

Guards take their blades, as they are forbidden in the sacred city. Jon gives his over gladly, knowing it means he’s less likely to meet the sharp side of an  _ arakh _ . 

Once inside, Jon feels himself nearly as distracted as he was in New Ibbish. Though the heart of the city is reserved for the Dothraki themselves, a huge quarter of the city has been given over to merchants. Hugh explains that the Western Market trades from the Free Cities while the Eastern Market trades from Asshai, Yi Ti, and the Shadow Lands. It is in the Western Market, he says, that they are to find Ser Jorah. 

It takes a long time. Jon finds himself distracted by all that surrounds him. A merchant from Braavos offers a sword akin to the ones carried by the sealords. A Tyroshi offers to dye Jon’s hair blue. A Lyseni woman in thin wisps of silk promises to make Jon experience more pleasure in an hour than most men experience their whole lives. That last one is tempting even to Hugh, but he only gives a gruff, “Later,” before steering Jon away. 

It feels like they’ve been searching for hours when a voice behind Jon says, “You must be Ned Stark’s bastard.” 

Jon turns around to see a man of an age with his father, his skin tanned and eyes a piercing blue. His garments are clearly Westerosi, and Jon relaxes a little at the sight. “Jorah Mormont?”

The other man inclines his head. “So I am.”

Hugh eyes the knight. “You’re to give me a password.”

“Harrenhal.”

Hugh nods. “Very well. With that, I leave you, Jon Snow. I wish you good fortune in the wars to come.”

Jon wants to say it back, but his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth. He can only watch as his last companion from Westeros turns and leaves him. 

“This way,” Ser Jorah says, and Jon follows him through the bazaar. “You are to pretend to be my baseborn son; that shouldn’t attract much attention.”

Ned Stark, Rhaegar Targaryen, Jorah Mormont. How many fathers is Jon going to have by the end of it?

“I don’t know what you need to say to the Targaryens; your aunt didn’t tell me,” Jorah continues. “But Viserys is prickly at best. He will not take it well if you meet Daenerys before him. You must make your obeisance to him first.” 

“I will,” Jon promises. He tries to form an image of Viserys in his head. He sees white-gold hair and a blurred face atop a black tunic embroidered with a three headed dragon. Is he prickly because he’s been rightfully wary of his enemies since he was five? Or did he inherit his father’s madness and cruelty? “What’s he like? Besides prickly?”

Jorah hesitates, and Jon’s heart sinks. “Viserys...has seen many things in his life. Hardship makes some men grow stronger, but Viserys...I think it’s made him more of a child. He longs to retake the Iron Throne, and every day the Dothraki ride east instead of west fills him with fear. That fear has festered into anger, and it is unbecoming on one who claims to be king.”

“Claims to be? But by rights, Viserys  _ is _ the king.”

Jorah’s face is grim. “You can meet him for yourself and tell me what you see.”

Confused, Jon follows Jorah into the heart of the city. The Dothraki spare little more than a blank gaze at the Westerosi before turning to their work; turning skewered meat over flames, setting up tents where there is no shelter, repairing boots, watching the children play in the streets made of dirt. Jon tries not to stare, but he can’t help it; there’s so  _ much _ to see here. 

Jorah stops suddenly in front of a hut, and Jon stumbles to a halt behind him. 

“Your Grace,” Jorah calls through the woven mat that hangs in the doorway. 

The man that pushes aside the mat is somehow not what Jon was expecting. He might have been handsome, once, were it not for the sneer on his face. His hair is indeed white-gold, his eyes a deep purple, but they narrow in suspicion when they take in Jon. 

“What is it, ser?” he asks, his voice dripping with disdain. 

_ So this is my uncle, the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. _

Jorah indicates Jon. “This is my son, Jon Snow. Jon, I give you Viserys Targaryen, rightful king of Westeros.”

Remembering himself, Jon drops to a knee, bowing his head. “Your Grace, I’m honored to be in your presence.”

“ _ Snow _ ?” Viserys sneers. “I did not know you had a bastard, ser.”

“I was too ashamed to admit it, Your Grace.”

“Rise,” Viserys says impatiently, and Jon does. His uncle inspects him. “Well, he certainly looks like a Northman. Who was his mother?”

“A common girl I met when married to my first wife.”

Viserys snorts, and Jon feels his hackles rise.  _ He wouldn’t snort if he knew who my father really was. _

“Well, you’re welcome to stay with us, Jon Snow, though I don’t see why you’d leave Westeros for this lot of savages living in mud houses. They do nothing but talk of their horses, when they’re not riding, eating, and fucking the things.” 

“I wanted to be with my family,” Jon finds himself saying. 

Viserys snorts again. “As you will.” He withdraws into his hut. 

Jon stares after him, feeling bereft. 

_ This is my uncle? The ruler of the Seven Kingdoms?  _

“Now do you see?” Jorah asks softly.

Jon swallows. “That’s...him?”

“Viserys Targaryen, third of his name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men,” Jorah says sardonically. 

_ How could this be him? This sniveling ass? _

“Is Daenerys...like that?”

“No,” Jorah says at once. “She’s nothing like her brother. Where he is cruel, she is kind; where he looks down at others, she only seeks to uplift. I tell you true, Jon Snow, Viserys is the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, but it is Daenerys who ought to sit upon it. A more just ruler the Seven Kingdoms would never know.”

Jon cannot understand how Viserys went so bad, but he feels a faint stirring of hope at Jorah’s words. “Can I meet her?”

“I will ask her bloodriders. She is heavily protected as the  _ khaleesi,  _ and even more so now that she carries the  _ khal _ ’s child. Tomorrow she will undergo an important ritual, where she must eat the heart of a stallion. If she eats the whole heart and does not throw it up, she will have a son.”

Jon’s stomach turns at the thought of eating a whole heart. Viserys had not been far off the mark when he said the Dothraki cannot stop talking about horses, or eating them. “I pray she eats the heart in full, that we may have a Targaryen heir.”

“I pray for the same,” Jorah says, and Jon does not think he’s lying. Could Jorah truly be so devoted to the Targaryens? 

Outside a second hut, Jorah speaks in the guttural tongue of Dothraki to a man Jon presumes to be Daenerys’s bloodrider. He is tall and muscular, his black hair oiled into a braid. His chest is bare, as it is with many of the Dothraki, save for a few scraps of leather. He looks Jon over curiously before ducking inside the hut. When he emerges, he nods, pulling back the gauzy curtain.

Jon follows Jorah inside, his breath catching when he sees the woman before him.  _ This, _ he thinks, is a Targaryen.

Daenerys is reclining on a pile of cushions, resplendent in a simple but beautiful sandsilk robe. Silver-blonde hair falls in waves all about her shoulders, catching the firelight with its sheen. And her eyes...purple and bright and otherworldly. Jon has only to look at her to know that this is a true Targaryen, the blood of the dragon. 

He sinks to his knee at once. “Princess Daenerys.”

“Rise,” she says at once, her voice like music. “You are Ser Jorah’s son, are you not?”

“I am,” he says, getting to his feet. 

“Then you are a friend to House Targaryen. I would get up, but getting up is not so easy these days, so you must come to me.”

Jon obediently comes closer, kissing her proffered hand. He feels ashamed for how dirty and sweaty he is, but Daenerys only smiles warmly at him. 

“Ser Jorah, you did not tell me you had a son.”

“I have told few about Jon,” Jorah says, taking a seat before the princess and urging Jon to do the same. “I did not want to invite judgment on either of us.”

“I could never judge you for such a thing,” Daenerys assures her friend. “So, Jon, you have come all this way to be with your father; how do you find Vaes Dothrak?”

“In truth, I have only been here an hour,” Jon admits. “But it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before. I had never even left the North before I came here.”

Daenerys smiles. “Tell me of Westeros; what news? And,” she adds with a laugh, hearing Jon’s stomach rumble, “something to eat, I think? I am fasting before my test tomorrow, but my handmaids can serve you.”

“Oh, no,” Jon starts to protest, but Daenerys orders a pretty girl named Doreah to bring them dates and a cool soup of horse meat and vegetables Jon has never tasted before.

“Nothing that smells good, I’m afraid,” she apologizes. “Or I won’t be able to hold to my fast.”

“You are most generous, my lady,” he assures her. 

She smiles again. “Now tell me more about Westeros.”

“There’s little to tell,” he confesses. He doesn’t want to tell Daenerys about his mother or the threat beyond the Wall until it’s time. “And even less in the North, where nothing seems to happen anyway.” 

“I’ve never seen Westeros,” she admits. “I was born on Dragonstone, but we left before I was old enough to remember.”

“You will see it again soon, my lady,” Jon promises. 

“I pray you are right, Jon Snow. I have never known the Seven Kingdoms, but it is all my brother talks about, and in some ways, it feels as though I know it well.”

“Jon has already had the pleasure of meeting your brother,” Jorah says with a sardonic smile.

Daenerys’s composure slips. “Oh...and…?”

“He seemed to have a lot on his mind, my lady,” Jon says politely. “We only spoke briefly.”

Daenerys’s face clears. “Good. I...he is so eager to retake the Iron Throne, you see. And the Dothraki do things differently than we Westerosi do, and it vexes him greatly. But once I eat the stallion’s heart, the  _ dosh khaleen _ will give me their blessing, and I’m sure Drogo will give Viserys the army he longs for.”

_ She’s afraid of him, _ Jon realizes. How deep does Viserys’s cruelty truly run? And is this the man Jon should truly be putting on the throne? Would his mother still want him to do this thing if she knew the truth? 

When he and Jorah retire to their shared tent for the evening, Jon wonders if Viserys will help him when the time comes. If he reveals his true identity and true purpose, what will Viserys do? Dispose of him as a threat? Banish him for a madman? 

_ It is Daenerys who will help me, I know she will. Even if I do not win her affection, she will help the people of Westeros. There’s a kindness in her. But will Viserys let her? Or will he terrorize her even after he’s taken the throne? _

_ The dragon has three heads, _ his father had said. But what do you do if one of those heads threatens to bite off the other two? 


	6. LYANNA II

Lyanna’s heart never fails to sink when she rides in through the city gates. Especially when she’s spent time in Winterfell; King’s Landing may be her home now, but she will always think of Winterfell as her true home. King’s Landing is ugly and crowded and stinking, and worst of all, filled with ghosts. Her father and brother, Elia and her children, even Aerys, horrible as he’d been. Sometimes Lyanna can hear them screaming in the night, their last agonized cries before their lives had been ended. 

Cassie is already trotting through the gate, cheers rising up from the smallfolk, so Lyanna follows, smiling and waving as if she is happy to be home. She’s learned to lie since becoming queen.

Robert himself is waiting at the Red Keep. Cassie scrambles off her horse and barrels at him, and he catches her with a roar of laughter, swinging the child off her feet and exclaiming over how tall she’s gotten since she left.

“It was only three months,” she protests, but she’s growing so much these days it wouldn’t surprise Lyanna if she had sprouted another inch or two.

When he looks at Lyanna, his eyes soften. 

“Lya,” he rumbles, holding out a hand.

She takes it, letting him pull her towards him. He kisses her gently, and the courtiers gathered applaud the loving reunion of king and queen. Even now, their story makes for a beautiful song. Even after she’d been imprisoned and molested by the wicked dragon prince, the brave stag had fought a war to win her back and make her his queen, and now they live in perfect harmony with their perfect daughter. 

_ What will the singers say when they find out I’m working to put another dragon back on the throne? _

“How was Winterfell?” Robert asks as they move inside. 

“A much needed breath of fresh air after the clamor of the city. Cassie enjoyed seeing her cousins, didn’t you, sweetling?”

“I did,” Cassie agrees. “Can they come visit us in King’s Landing, Father?”

“If you can get your uncle to budge!” Robert bellows good-naturedly. “Ned’s like a brother to me, but I declare he’s far too attached to the North. Spending time in the south would do him good.”

“I invited him to come, but he needs to think about,” Lyanna sighs. “Robert, would you consider making his son your squire? The middle one, Bran? He’s the right age, and an eager lad. It might give Ned the incentive to come south.”

“Of course he’ll be my squire! And  _ all _ the Starks shall come, we’ll find places for all of them at court.”

“I was hoping you would say that. Now, how has the capital been?” she asks, genuinely curious.

“Same as always. Renly and Cersei are at court again.”

Lyanna stifles a groan. As much as she likes her goodbrother, she cannot abide his wife, nor can Cersei abide her. It’s common knowledge that Tywin Lannister had intended Cersei for Rhaegar, but Aerys’s pride had led him to overlook his old friend’s daughter. After the sack of King’s Landing, there had been talk of marrying Cersei to Robert; even when Lyanna returned from Dorne and everyone knew that Rhaegar had raped her, Tywin had urged Robert to marry Cersei, who was pure and unspoiled. Robert had nearly threatened to kill him for that. 

“I fought a bloody war to get her back; I won’t abandon her just because Rhaegar’s had her,” he’d roared. 

Instead, Cersei had been offered Renly, who was unmarried and the lord of Storm’s End. Stannis was already wed to Selyse Florent and only ruled Dragonstone besides. Despite Renly only being a child, Tywin had agreed to the match, knowing he wasn’t going to do much better than the brother of the king and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. Even so, Cersei has never quite forgiven Lyanna for having not one, but two of the men for whom she was intended. 

_ You’d have been welcome to both of them,  _ Lyanna has often thought. She wouldn’t have minded marrying Renly. He’s a merry fellow, and his dalliances with other men are the court’s worst kept secrets. They could have had a friendly marriage of convenience, and perhaps someday, she could have told him about the son she’d had to abandon. 

_ Not Robert. I can never tell him about Jon. The day he finds out is the day I leave King’s Landing, if not the country.  _

“It is good to have you back, my queen.”

Lyanna barely smiles. “Thank you, Lord Baelish.”

The Master of Coin bows. Littlefinger would appear to be an unassuming man at first glance, but Lyanna knows that he’s not as simple as he purports to be. He’s a snake, perhaps more than any of the others, and she only has to slip up once for him to end her. 

“Our King was most incensed when he learned that Daenerys Targaryen was with child,” he adds, falling into step with his queen.

Lyanna’s heart skips a beat. “With child? Truly?” Inwardly, she wonders how the small council could have learned this before even she did. Has Jorah turned his cloak for a better offer from Robert?  _ And if so, has he mentioned me? _ “How did you discover this?”

Littlefinger smiles at her. “Why, Lord Varys intercepted a letter from Ser Jorah Mormont to an unknown recipient.” His smile widens, and Lyanna feels her heart stop. 

_ He knows.  _

Everything around her seems to blur, Robert’s voice muffled as Littlefinger’s smile becomes wider and more menacing. 

_ He’s going to hold this over my head.  _

“...isn’t that right?” Robert booms, and his courtiers hasten to affirm him. He moves on, but Lyanna’s feet are leaden. Littlefinger offers her his arm; disgusted, she moves to brush past him, but he stays close to her side. 

“Very interesting,” he whispers. “The letter almost looked as if it was addressed to  _ you _ , Your Grace.”

“That  _ is _ interesting,” she says coldly. “I wonder why Jorah Mormont would be writing to me with news of Daenerys Targaryen’s pregnancy. No doubt he meant to pass that information along to my husband.”

“No doubt,” Littlefinger echoes. “But why, I wonder, was it done so secretly? It is common knowledge that the king would offer a royal pardon to any who gave him information about the last Targaryens.”

“I wonder as well,” she says, still in that cold voice. “It is odd, Lord Baelish, that you have raised these concerns with me and not my husband, or better yet, his Hand.”

“I could, if you like.” His voice is soft velvet, but she can hear the threat beneath it. “Shall I go now?” He starts to move forward, but Lyanna, possessed by a mad fear, grabs hold of his sleeve. 

His grin is enough to kill her. 

“What do you want?” she asks quietly.

“I want so many things, Your Grace. I shall have to think of what exactly I want.”

“You know exactly what you want,” she snaps. “You’ve had plenty of time to think and come to me with your threats.”

“True.” He doesn’t even bother to lie. “But I enjoy watching you squirm all the same.”

She digs her fingernails into his arm. “Name your price and be done with it.”

He taps his chin, pretending to think. “I’m at such a loss for words right now, Your Grace; I confess, you’ve flustered me quite.”

So that’s the way he’s playing the game; he’ll have her at his beck and call, to do whatever favors he needs whenever he needs them. 

_ Perhaps I can convince Robert to kill him.  _

Something else occurs to her. “You said Lord Varys discovered the letter.”

Littlefinger smiles. “I did.”

“So why are you the one confronting me?”

“The Spider rarely confronts; he chooses to sit back in his web of secrets more often than not.” 

_ I must confront Varys now, too.  _

She walks away abruptly.

“Is everything alright, Your Grace?”

She ignores Littlefinger; she’ll deal with him later.

Melisandre falls into step beside her. “He threatens to destroy all the work you’ve done.”

“Threatens, yes, but when has Littlefinger ever done anything? He wants too many things from me to reveal my secret.”

“Still. The price of such a secret will be too steep even for you. Better to have him killed than risk your own neck.” Melisandre turns those piercing red eyes to Lyanna. “I can do it for you, my queen.”

Lyanna hesitates. She knows she wouldn’t be the first queen to have a meddling courtier quietly removed from the game, but does she dare risk it? She isn’t a murderer, and if she can only dig up something on Littlefinger, then the scales will be balanced. 

_ Until he finds a way to unbalance them again. _

.

They find Varys in his rooms, deceptively sparse for a man who wears so much silk and powder. He greets them with a small giggle, sending a servant to bring refreshment. Lyanna nearly protests before realizing how hungry she is after the journey. 

“Now tell me, what can I do for my queen?” Varys asks politely once he’s dismissed the little serving girl.

Lyanna takes her time biting into a fig. “Lord Baelish tells me you discovered a letter from Jorah Mormont that says Daenerys Targaryen is with child. He said that the letter appeared to be addressed to me.”

“It did,” Varys says with a rare frankness. “Though whether you  _ knew _ the letter was coming your way, well…”

Lyanna takes a sip of her summerwine, carefully choosing her words. “Lord Baelish seems to believe I am in some kind of conspiracy with Jorah Mormont. Is that your belief as well?”

“Lord Baelish and I rarely agree on anything,” Varys says with one of his characteristic giggles. “But I must confess, Your Grace, it is so very  _ odd _ that just after the small council received word that Daenerys Targaryen was wed to Khal Drogo, you left ever so quickly for the North. My little birds tell me you sent your nephew to White Harbor, and from there, across the Narrow Sea. And while you are gone, a letter arrives from Ser Jorah to you explaining that Daenerys Targaryen is with child.”

Lyanna grips the arms of her chair. 

Varys smiles, and for once, it is not the simpering smile he so often gives. This is a smirk and a threat. 

“Spiders rarely seek out flesh to bite, did you know that? Most of them are content with the flies that wander into their webs. Provoking bigger game is liable to get them squashed. But if you seek out a spider and his web, take care, for he’ll bite you as easily as one of his flies.”

“You dare threaten me?” she demands, rising.

Varys looks unconcerned. “Threaten you? No, my queen. I imagine Littlefinger has already done that. No, I had no intention of confronting you about the letter, but you came to me and started prodding, and what was I to do?”

“You should show more respect for your queen,” Melisandre warns him.

Varys eyes her with distaste. “The same respect she shows her own husband?”

Lyanna vibrates with nervous, angry energy. “If you weren’t going to confront me, then what? What do you gain from all this?”

Varys turns his eyes to her again, and the mirth fades as quickly as it appeared. “The same thing I imagine Littlefinger has gained; a secret to use when the time is right. Perhaps someday it will be in the realm’s best interests to tell King Robert. Perhaps it will be in the realm’s best interests if I keep this secret until the Targaryens and their Dothraki sail across the Narrow Sea, and the knowledge that I protected your secret will keep me alive when they do. Either way, to keep this secret benefits me more than bringing it to the king like a child desperate for attention.”

“But you’ve already gone to the king,” she reminds him. “You told him about the contents of the letter. Why?”

“Word will spread soon enough, and what kind of Master of Whisperers would I be if I didn’t know these things before anyone else does? Until something changes, I must continue playing the part of the dutiful servant, just as you must continue playing the part of the dutiful queen.” He sips his own wine. “But I should tell you, King Robert has already dispatched an assassin to deal with Daenerys.”

“Tell me,” she demands.

“A wine merchant in Vaes Dothrak. He’ll offer her a cask of fine wine. It will be poisoned.”

Lyanna runs from the room, determined to write to Ser Jorah. Perhaps it isn’t too late. Perhaps he can stop the assassin, or at least give Daenerys fair warning. 

_ Please,  _ she prays,  _ let her be alright. _


	7. JON III

_ Please, _ he prays,  _ let her be alright.  _

All around him, the  _ dosh khaleen _ are chanting while incense fills the room, yet not even the loudest chants and strongest incense can mask the sounds and smells of the stallion’s heart.

It’s an enormous thing, about the size of her head. It looks fresh, too; blood bursts whenever Daenerys takes a fresh bite, staining her mouth and trailing down her neck and arms. 

It makes Jon sick just to watch it. How she can eat it is beyond him. He knows she practiced on clotted blood and fasted all day today and yesterday so she would be hungry, but he can’t imagine even the hungriest person dining on a bloody, muscly heart. 

Her eyes never leave Drogo’s, even when the ceremony goes on for so long that Jon starts to feel faint. Drogo, in turn, never looks away. Jon has yet to formally meet the man (for which he is grateful), but he seems to love his bride a great deal. And she must love him, to endure such a trial. 

“She’s doing well,” Jorah observes, something like a smile on his face. 

“She’ll never keep it down.” Viserys, standing beside Jorah, looks on in disgust. 

As Daenerys eats more and more of the heart, the chanting of the  _ dosh khaleen _ becomes louder and more excited, their leader singing and ululating. 

“Tell me what she’s saying,” Viserys orders.

Jorah takes a moment to translate. “‘The prince is riding. I have heard the thunder of his hooves. Swift as the wind he rides. His enemies will cower before him, and their wives will weep tears of blood.’” 

_ The prince, _ Jon thinks madly.  _ The prince that was promised.  _ Could it be Daenerys’s child? Not Aegon, not him, not Viserys, but Daenerys’s unborn son?

“She’s going to have a boy,” Jorah states, seeing her near the end of the heart. 

“He won’t be a real Targaryen,” Viserys says, but there’s something like fear in his voice. “He won’t be a true dragon.”

Daenerys eats the last morsel of heart and sways on her knees; at the height of the chanting, she falls forward, gagging.

The chanting stops and everyone watches, breathless, as Daenerys struggles with the heart. And then, proud, she lifts her head and audibly swallows.

The head of the  _ dosh khaleen _ begins to chant again. 

“The Stallion Who Mounts the World,” Jorah translates. “The Stallion is the  _ Khal _ of  _ Khals _ . He shall unite the people into a single  _ khalasar _ . All the people of the world will be his herd.”

Daenerys climbs to her feet and shouts in Dothraki. Only the last word stands out, because all of the Dothraki begin chanting it. 

“ _ Rhaego, Rhaego, Rhaego, Rhaego! _ ”

_ Rhaegar. She would name her son for my father, the brother she never knew.  _ It makes Jon’s throat tight. 

“They love her,” Viserys realizes. 

Khal Drogo lifts the pregnant and bloody woman off of the platform and carries her around the room so that all may see her. The chanting grows louder, and even Jon cannot help sharing the feeling of triumph. 

“She truly is a queen today,” Jorah says. Then, a moment later, “I’ll be back.”

Jon doesn’t even look after the other man—his eyes are fixed on Daenerys, beaming through the blood on her face. Her eyes catch his and her smile widens. 

_ Does she know? That our lives are now entwined? That in her womb sits the prince that was promised?  _

.

After Daenerys washes the blood from her body, the  _ khalasar _ proceeds to the feast hall. Jon joins Jorah, who is already feasting, but it isn’t long before Daenerys sends for both of them. They sink to their knees as Jorah tells her they are hers to command.

“Sit and talk with me,” she urges, patting the cushions beside her. 

“You honor us both,” Jorah tells her, and he and Jon sit to her left. Slaves offer them food, and despite the earlier display, Jon finds his stomach rumbling. He accepts a ripe fig, murmuring his thanks. He knows the slave will not understand the words coming from his mouth, but he hopes she understands the sentiment all the same. 

“Where is my brother?” Daenerys asks. “He ought to have come by now, for the feast.”

Jorah clears his throat. “I do not think he will be joining us, princess.”

“No?”

He shakes his head. “I found him in your hut after the ceremony, trying to steal your dragon eggs.”

Jon looks up in surprise. Dragon eggs? 

“Petrified eggs,” Jorah clarifies at Jon’s face. “Yet more valuable than any jewel. Even one could buy Viserys a decent army; three could buy him a ship and a large army, enough to cross the Narrow Sea.”

Daenerys is visibly troubled. “Then...he should have them. He does not need to steal them. He is my brother...and my true king.”

“He is your brother,” Jorah acknowledges...but he does not acknowledge the second part.

“You do not understand, ser,” she insists. “My mother died giving me birth, and my father and my brother Rhaegar even before that. I would never have known so much as their names if Viserys had not been there to tell me. He was the only one left. The only one. He is all I have.”

_ You have me, _ Jon thinks, but what is that worth? He knows even less about Aerys and Rhaella and Rhaegar than Daenerys. 

“Once,” Jorah agrees. “No longer,  _ Khaleesi _ . You belong to the Dothraki now. In your womb rides the stallion who mounts the world.” 

Jon clears his throat. “Have you ever heard of Azor Ahai, my lady?”

Daenerys peers curiously at him. “No. Tell me.”

“It is an old tale, told to me by my mother. Azor Ahai wielded a fiery sword named Lightbringer, and with it, destroyed the darkness. Some say he was the last hero who drove back the Others in the Battle for the Dawn. The prophets believed he would be reborn as the prince that was promised.”

Daenerys and Jorah both consider him. 

“The prince that was promised, the stallion who mounts the world,” Daenerys muses. “You think they are one in the same?”

“I could not say, my lady,” Jon says humbly. “But if your son is truly the warrior he is prophesied to be, perhaps he is also the prince that was promised.”

Jorah is looking at him strangely, but Daenerys smiles. 

“Perhaps. Are we to take this to mean the Others are coming back?”

“Perhaps. The last hero only drove them back, but did not destroy them.”

“Correct me if my history is wrong, Jon Snow, but was the Battle for the Dawn not eight thousand years ago? Surely if the Others were coming back, they wouldn’t have waited so long?”

“Perhaps,” Jon says again. “Or perhaps they were biding their time, waiting until no one believed in them anymore--”

Jorah grips his arm and mutters, “Leave it.”

Jon closes his mouth, frustrated and a little embarrassed.

Daenerys takes pity on him. “Have some wine, Jon. This is a night for celebration.”

Doreah, her pretty handmaid, fills his cup with summerwine and smiles at him. He smiles back, trying to relax. She’s right. This is a night for celebration. They can talk of the Others another night.

All in all, it is a pleasant night. The food is savory and spicy, like nothing Jon has ever tasted before, and the wine is sweeter than any he’s had in the North. Women wearing very little dance before him; it makes his cheeks flush to see their bared breasts, but that’s nothing compared to the first time he sees a man get up from his spot and take one of them then and there. He wants to look away but is unable to, eyes wide as they mate like dogs. 

Daenerys chuckles at Jon’s shock.

“It surprised me too, the first time I saw it,” she tells him. “The Dothraki consider it a normal thing.”

He swallows. “Oh.”

She laughs again. “Don’t worry, Jon, you’ll soon become accustomed to our ways.”

_ Our ways. She speaks as though she is one of them. Perhaps she is.  _

They are all having a merry time when a voice pierces the pleasant din.

“Daenerys! Where’s my sister!”

Daenerys, who had been mid laugh, shrinks back, the smile fading. “Stop him,” she tells Jorah. 

Jorah goes to Viserys, who is stumbling and weaving all over the hall. 

_ He’s drunk, _ Jon realizes. 

“Where is she? I’m here for the feast! The whore’s feast!”

Jorah tries to stop him from getting too far, gently putting his hands on the other man’s shoulders, but Viserys wrenches back. “Get your hands off me! No one touches the dragon!” he seethes.

The watching  _ khals _ snigger loud enough for Viserys to hear. He pastes a smile on his face. “Khal Drogo! I’m here for the feast!”

Drogo says something Jon cannot understand. Neither can Viserys, as he turns expectantly towards Jorah.

“Khal Drogo says your place is not on the high bench,” Jorah translates. “Khal Drogo says your place is there.” He indicates a dark corner at the end of the hall, far away from the high benches. 

Viserys shakes his head. “That is no place for a king.”

Drogo’s Common Tongue is thick but understandable. “You. Are. No .King.”

Viserys’s face twists, and with a sudden movement, he pulls a sword from his side. The music stops, everyone hushing as they see a forbidden blade.

“Viserys, please,” Daenerys calls desperately.

Viserys turns around, a strange smile on his face as he takes in the sight of his sister. “There she is.” Blade pointing forward, he walks to his sister. Jon rises to his feet, wishing desperately he had something, anything on him to defend his aunt. 

“Put the sword down, fool, they’ll kill us all!” Jorah urges.

“They can’t kill us,” Viserys sings. “They can’t shed blood in their sacred city.” His blade comes ever closer to Daenerys; Jon and Doreah both move to step in front of her, but she calmly pushes them aside. Jon watches, helpless, as Viserys touches the point of his sword to her belly, pressing until she backs onto the bench and sits. “But I can.” He looks between Drogo and his sister. One of Daenerys’s handmaids translates for Khal Drogo, but there’s no mistaking the meaning behind Viserys’s look. “I want what I came for,” he continues. “I want the crown he promised me. He bought you. But he never paid for you.”

Jon’s blood boils. This is how his king speaks to his subject? How a brother speaks to his sister? 

Viserys looks at Drogo again. “Tell him I want what was bargained for or I’m taking you back. He can keep the baby. I’ll cut it out and leave it for him.”

Jon’s stomach turns. Would that he had a sword on him. Would that he could do anything.

Drogo speaks for a long moment, long enough to catch Viserys’s attention. “What’s he saying?”

Daenerys swallows. “He says yes,” she says softly. “You shall have a golden crown that men shall tremble to behold.”

Jon looks at Drogo, whose face is an impossible mask. Does he really mean it? 

“That was all I wanted,” Viserys says, a boyish, almost shy smile lighting his face. “What was promised.” 

_ What a different man he is, _ Jon realizes.  _ Jorah is right, perhaps hardship has truly turned him into a child. Perhaps he was always a child pretending to be a man. _

Drogo goes to Daenerys, pressing his hand against her swollen belly. He growls something in Dothraki, and two of his bloodriders come forward, breaking Viserys’s arms and hauling him away. 

“No!” he shouts, flailing in their grasp. “You cannot touch me! I am the dragon!”

Jon watches in shock as Drogo removes the gold medallions from his waist. A slave empties the pot of stew simmering over the fire; Drogo throws his medallions inside, watching as they melt. 

_ Oh no, _ Jon realizes.  _ No, no,  _ ** _no_ ** _ . _

Jorah comes to stand before Daenerys, making to turn her away. “Look away, princess.”

“No,” she says, soft but firm. 

“No, Dany!” Viserys wails. “Dany, tell them! Make them!”

Drogo removes the pot from the fire, walking towards Viserys. The other man’s pleas become more desperate, more pathetic.

_ So this is it. This is how a king dies. _

In the Common Tongue, Drogo hisses, “A crown for a king.” And he upends the pot of molten gold atop Viserys’s head. 

Viserys screams, a horrible, piercing scream, until the gold silences him. When he goes still and quiet, the bloodriders release his broken arms. He topples forward, his golden head hitting the ground with a thud. 

It’s still and quiet for a long moment as everyone looks at Viserys Targaryen, third of his name, wearing his crown at last.

“Khaleesi?” Jorah asks softly.

“He was no dragon.” Daenerys’s voice is far away. “Fire cannot kill a dragon.”


	8. ARYA I

Arya practices for one hour every day. She has to use her left hand, just like when she sews, but Ser Rodrik tells her that’s alright. 

“Lots of knights are left-handed,” he assures her. “It gives you the advantage. You’ll always train with right-handed men, but right-handed men never train with left-handed ones. You’ll be quicker and better for it.”

The idea of fighting someone, even if it’s just pretend, makes Arya smile. She wants to get so good that one day she can join the boys and knock them all in the dust. Wouldn’t that be something, to see the looks on their faces? They’d all be shocked. Only Jon would laugh at how stupid they all looked.

_ Jon.  _

Her brother has been gone for weeks now. He’d left with barely a word of farewell, and as much as she loves Needle, she’d rather have her brother. 

She’d named the blade Needle because she has more skill with it than a real one. Sansa was always better at sewing, but her sister will never be good af sword fighting. 

_ Nor will I, if I only practice with old Ser Rodrik.  _

The master-at-arms is a good teacher, but Arya gets tired of sparring with only him, and besides, it’s clear he thinks this sort of thing is unfit for a lady. He indulges her because Father asked him to, but if he had his way, Arya would he sitting in the solar with Sansa, embroidering tiny little flowers on everything. 

_ Cassie probably gets to practice with all the knights in the realm,  _ she thinks enviously. King Robert loves his daughter and lets her get away with everything. Why shouldn’t he make his knights train his daughter to be a fierce warrior? She’s probably the only child he’ll ever have. 

She’s not supposed to say that, but Cassie had said it first. 

“My mother almost died having me,” she’d confided in her cousin. “Maester Frenken told her that if she had another child, they’d both surely die. No one else knows because they’ll get angry if they think Mother can’t have a son, so she and Father have to pretend they’re still trying for one.”

“Will you be queen when your father dies?” Arya had asked. “Or will your uncle become king?”

“I don’t know,” Cassie had admitted. “Girls never rule, but that’s always because there’s another boy who thinks he can rule better. Father wants me to be queen. He says I’ll be a better queen than his brothers kings, but I’m not supposed to tell them that.”

“Girls can do anything boys can do,” Arya had said fiercely, and she’d meant it. 

She means it now, too, Needle whistling through the air. She’s better than Bran, even though he’s been practicing longer than she has. And she’s a better archer, too. She’s better at everything, except climbing. No one can climb like Bran. 

She feels eyes on her, and nearly misses Ser Rodrik’s thrust as she glances up. 

“Father!”

Ser Rodrik lowers his wooden sword at once, bowing. “Lord Stark.”

Father smiles at her. “You’re doing well, love.”

She beams. “Thank you.”

Father turns to Ser Rodrik. “Might I have a moment alone with my daughter?”

“Of course, my lord.” Ser Rodrik bows, leaving them. 

Father comes forward, smile still in place. “You’re good. Soon you’ll be able to spar with the boys.”

“Really?” she asks excitedly. “You’ll let me?”

“Someday.”

It’s not a promise, but it’s not  _ not _ a promise. “I miss sparring with Cassie.”

“I know. You’ll see her again someday.”

“Maybe,” she mumbles. It had been four years since she’d last seen her cousin—will she have to wait another four years to see her again? 

Father’s face grows sad. “You’re lonely here, aren’t you?”

She hesitates. She isn’t  _ lonely _ , exactly, but she was closest to Cassie and Jon, and they’re both gone. She and Sansa don’t get along all the time, and lately, even she and Bran have been growing apart. Her only true friend is Nymeria, but as much as she talks to her, the wolf will never talk back. 

“You should be around people.”

“I am around people,” she says, surprised, but Father shakes his head. 

“You should be around all kinds of people, not just Winterfell’s household. You’ve never left the North; gods, you’ve barely left home.”

She doesn’t say anything, because he isn’t wrong. 

Father sighs. “You’re all lonely here. True, you have your friends, but you could make so many more at court.”

“At court?” she echoes. “In King’s Landing?”

He gives her a small smile. “Would you like to go?”

Her breath catches. “Really, Father?”

“Really. Your aunt has invited us.”

Arya lets out a small shout of joy, and Father laughs at that. 

“Can we really go? Cassie said she’d show me the old dragon skulls from the Targaryen days, and the Great Sept of Baelor where all the Targaryens’ ashes are kept, and she said there’s even a wisdom of men who make wildfire, only she hasn’t found them yet—“

Father laughs again. “I have to make some arrangements first, but yes, we’ll go.”

Arya shouts again, dropping Needle to throw her arms around his neck. He catches her easily, arms tight around her. 

.

It’s only a matter of hours before the Stark children are buzzing with talk of King’s Landing. Though Father still has not set a date, they all know it’s coming. Robb and Theon talk about all the famous people and places they’re going to see, Sansa and Jeyne Poole wonder if there will be any tourneys, or better yet, masked balls, Bran brags to anyone who will listen that he’s going to be King Robert’s squire, and Rickon pitches a fit until Mother allows that he can bring Shaggydog. They can all bring their wolves, so long as they keep them well in hand. 

“Even Ghost?” Arya asks. 

“Even Ghost,” Mother agrees. “He is well-behaved. Perhaps Cassie can look after him until Jon returns.”

“He won’t like it in the south,” Rickon says with surprising sagacity. 

“What makes you say that?”

Rickon scoffs as if it should be obvious. “ _ Because. _ ”

“Will Shaggydog like it in the south?”

“Probably not. You’ll want to chain him up the whole time. He hates being chained up. But he hates being away from me more, and if I have to go to King’s Landing, Shaggydog has to come with me.”

“You don’t want to go?” Sansa asks in surprise. 

“He doesn’t understand,” Bran explains. “He’s still a baby.”

“I am  _ not! _ ”

“You are so.”

“I’m  _ six,  _ I’m not a  _ baby _ !”

“Enough,” Mother says sharply, seeing Shaggydog’s hackles start to rise. “Bran, don’t call your brother a baby. Rickon, you’ll like King’s Landing when we’re there, you’ll see. And we can find a nice, big open place for Shaggydog to play.”

That seems to satisfy Rickon, who settles down in his seat and eats his dinner. Shaggydog relaxes too, resting his head in Rickon’s lap and staring with sad eyes until the little boy sneaks him morsels. Mother pretends not to notice. 

“Arya, don’t slouch,” Septa Mordane scolds. 

Arya scowls into her plate, straightening her back. 

“I declare, we’ll have to do something about your posture before going to King’s Landing. Ladies don’t sit that way.”

“Arya isn’t a lady,” Sansa says loftily. 

“Sansa,” Mother warns. 

Arya feels herself getting angry. “Maybe I don’t want to be a lady. Ladies never get to do anything fun. I wish I’d been born a boy. I’m better at everything than Bran.”

“Are not,” he retorts.

“Are too!”

“What has gotten into my children?” Mother complains. “Arya, you  _ are _ a lady, like it or not, and you must act accordingly. Sansa, that was an unkind thing to say to your sister.”

Sansa ducks her head. “I’m sorry, Mother.”

“Make your apology to your sister, not to me.”

Sansa lifts her head. “I’m sorry, Arya.”

They eat in silence for a long moment, until Bran leans over and whispers, “You  _ are _ a better archer than me.”

“I know,” she whispers back. 

“You’re supposed to say ‘thank you’.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He chews his food for a moment. “Theon’s been helping me. Do you want to practice with us?”

She perks up at the invitation. “Really?”

He shrugs. “Why not?”

Sansa, overhearing their conversation, huffs. “Ladies don’t--”

“Some ladies do,” Arya snaps. “Like Wenda the White Fawn.”

“She was an  _ outlaw. _ ”

“Then maybe I’ll become an outlaw too.”

Mother presses her fingers to her temple. “Children…”

They hunker over their plates, chastened at the reproach. 

_ They all want me to be a lady, _ Arya realizes in dismay.  _ None of them want me for me. Except for Jon. Jon always loved me for me. _

She pushes away her plate. “Mother, may I be excused?”

“You’ve hardly touched your food,” Septa Mordane remarks. 

Arya looks imploringly at Mother, who nods with a sigh. “Very well.”

Arya bolts from the hall, feeling her eyes begin to prick with tears. She wipes them away, but not quick enough; she stumbles right into Hodor.

“Hodor,” he declares, peering down at her.

“Sorry,” she says miserably, pushing past him to flee to her room. Nymeria is already curled up on the bed; when Arya closes the door, she flings herself beside the wolf, burying her face in Nymeria’s soft fur. The wolf’s cold nose sniffs her neck, and then she licks her in what she must think is a soothing manner. It does make her feel a little better, even if Nymeria’s tongue is rough and only serves to make Arya’s neck damp.

A knock on the door makes both girl and wolf look up. 

“Arya? Can I come in?”

It’s Sansa. Arya frowns. “No.”

She can hear her sister sigh from the other side of the door. “Please?”

Arya hesitates. “Fine.”

Sansa opens the door, looking prim and proper and every inch the perfect little lady that Arya will never be. She takes a seat on the edge of the bed, petting Nymeria. Nymeria, the traitor, rolls over for belly scratches.

“I’m sorry,” Sansa says, and the sincerity in her voice surprises Arya. “I was unkind to you at dinner.”

Arya regards her with suspicion. “Did Mother make you say that?”

“Yes,” Sansa says bluntly. “But she was right; I accused you of not being a lady, but I was the unladylike one. You’re right, there are ladies skilled in archery--ladies who aren’t outlaws. I was only trying to upset you.”

“Why?” Arya asks softly. “Why would you  _ try _ to upset me?”

Sansa avoids her eye. “For the same reason you try to upset me.”

“I didn’t say anything at dinner--”

“Not at dinner. Other times. A lot of times. You call me stupid and you ruin my things.”

“You call me things too.”

“Yes, but you  _ do it _ ,” Sansa emphasizes. “It hurts my feelings.”

Arya has never considered before that Sansa’s feelings could be  _ hurt _ . Her sister always seems so calm and composed. It’s part of why Arya resents her so much; everyone knows when Arya’s upset, but Sansa rarely shows distress.  _ Maybe she gets upset too, and she’s just learned to hide it. _ And Sansa’s right--she  _ does _ ruin her things, like the dresses she makes and her feather bed. She would be upset if Sansa did those things to her. 

“I’m sorry,” Arya says, ashamed. 

Sansa adjusts her sleeves. “Can we make a truce? Where we’ll stop being mean to each other?”

Arya considers. “Only if you tell Jeyne to stop being mean to me, too.”

“I will,” Sansa assures her. 

Arya nods. “Then yes, we have a truce.”

Sansa beams. “Good.”

Arya can’t remember the last time Sansa smiled at her like that. It makes her feel warm and happy, and she wants to share something with her sister. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Of course,” Sansa says, eager and curious.

“Jon gave me a sword when he left. It’s a small one, just for me. Father has Ser Rodrik train me with it in private.”

Sansa’s eyes widen. “A  _ sword _ ?”

“A small one,” Arya repeats. “Do you want to see it?”

Sansa nods eagerly. Arya gets off the bed, reaching under it to pull out Needle. She shows it to Sansa nervously, wondering if she’s broken the peace they just made.

But Sansa looks impressed. “You know how to use this?”

“Yes,” Arya brags. “Well, only a little, but I bet I’m better than Bran.”

“Can I touch it?”

“Yes, but be careful,” Arya says, even though it’s only the pointy end that would hurt.

Sansa runs a feather-light finger along the blade. “It’s pretty.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Arya’s never thought of it as pretty before, but it is, really. “I call it Needle.”

Sansa looks up at her, grinning. “It’s perfect.”

Arya grins back. “I thought so, too. Do you want to hold it?”

Sansa hesitates. “I don’t know...I’ve never held a sword before…”

“It’s easy. And it’s not a real sword, anyway.” 

Sansa gets up, letting Arya place the hilt in her hand. She curls her sister’s fingers around it until Sansa’s holding it the right way. 

“Now what?”

“Stick ‘em with the pointy end.”

Sansa laughs. It feels good, to make Sansa laugh again. 

“I’ll leave the sticking to you. You’re probably better at it than I could ever be.”

“Just like you’re better with your needles than I am.”

Sansa bows her head. “Just so. But if you ever want help, Arya, you know you can always ask. Your stitches are frightfully crooked.”

“I know,” Arya says gloomily. “Septa Mordane is always telling me.”

“She’s always telling me how awful I am at sums.”

“Well, you are.”

“I know,” Sansa agrees. “That’s why I’m going to have a steward when I get married.”

Arya makes a face.

“What?”

“I don’t want to get married, do you?”

“I do,” Sansa says almost dreamily. “To a brave and handsome knight.”

Arya has to physically restrain herself from making a retort; she and Sansa have agreed to be kind to each other now, after all. “I hope you find one,” she says politely.

Sansa beams. “Thank you, Arya. And I hope you find...someone to your liking.”

_ But who, _ Arya wonders, is  _ to my liking? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come say on tumblr! my url is jeynepoole <3


	9. JON IV

Jon lies in bed for hours, but he cannot shake the image of Viserys’s molten head from his mind. Despite the warm clime of Vaes Dothrak, he feels cold. He shrugs into his clothes from Winterfell, tugging the blanket up to his chin. 

_ I saw my uncle die before my very eyes. _ The King of Westeros. The third head of the dragon. The only remaining son of Aerys and Rhaella. The last person able to pass on the Targaryen name. Dead.

_ What do I do now? What will I tell my mother? What if Daenerys has no wish to return to Westeros now, and all this has been for naught? _

It eats at him until he can’t bear the idea of lying there, helpless. He throws back the covers and pulls on his boots, deciding to take a long walk.

It’s not safe to wander too far past his hut, where most of Khal Drogo’s  _ khalasar _ knows him as  _ Jorah Rizh _ , or Jorah Son. The other inhabitants of Vaes Dothrak don’t take kindly to foreigners wandering out of the markets, and though they are not allowed to shed blood here, Jon has seen himself that that won’t stop a determined Dothraki. 

Some of the riders are squatting by fires; they nod at Jon but say nothing. He passes all of them, wandering around Khal Drogo’s camp until he feels calmer.

“You look troubled, Jon Snow.”

He looks up at that. Doreah, Daenerys’s pretty handmaid, is watching him from her tent, a shawl wrapped around her slim frame. 

“Did I disturb you, my lady?”

She gives him a small smile. “I’m not a lady, I’m a slave.”

He hadn’t known that. “Are all of Daenerys’s handmaids slaves?”

She tilts her head. “Yes. Did you not know that?”

He shakes his head. “In my country, handmaids are free women who serve at their leisure. It is an honor, but they can come and go as they please.” Not that he knows many handmaids. His mother has ladies-in-waiting, highborn ladies who live at court, and Lady Catelyn has maids from old Northern families to attend her. Even Sansa has Jeyne Poole, who’s more a friend than servant in any case. 

“It is not so here. Irri and Jhiqui belonged to other  _ khalasars, _ but Khal Drogo killed their  _ khal _ and took them as slaves. They were a gift to Daenerys, as was I.”

“But you are not Dothraki.”

“No,” she agrees. “I am from Lys. I was a gift from Illyrio Mopatis, who brought Daenerys and Khal Drogo together. I was chosen because I was a bed slave.”

Jon’s stomach twists. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I have a good life here with the  _ khaleesi _ . I’m happy.”

He can’t imagine being happy in chains. But he supposes some chains are better than others. She is a bed slave no longer; now, she serves a woman of esteem. 

He bows his head. “You wait upon Daenerys, so you are a lady to me. So, my lady, I hope I did not disturb you.”

She giggles. “You did not,  _ my lord _ . I couldn’t sleep either.” Her smile fades. “It’s...hard, after what happened tonight.”

“Yes,” he agrees softly. “That was a horrible thing to see.”

She shakes her head, looking away. “I’ve seen horrible things before...but nothing like that.” She bites her lip. “I...knew him. Viserys. He wasn’t always like this. Sometimes he was capable of kindness.”

_ Capable of kindness, but not kind.  _

“I only met him yesterday. I wish I’d known him better.”

She shakes her head, looking back at him. “No. I think, if anything, seeing his kindness would have made it harder to see his cruelty. It was hard for me.” Her toe traces a circle in the dirt. “He was your king, wasn’t he?”

“Was,” Jon agrees. “Now...I suppose that makes Daenerys my queen.”

The thought sends a shiver down his spine.  _ My queen. _ It feels right to say. She is his queen. Hadn’t Jorah even said she was more deserving of the crown than her brother? 

“Doreah,” he says, a thought occurring to him. “Do you think Daenerys  _ wants _ the Iron Throne? Now that she has a place here?”

“I don’t know,” she admits. “She seems happy here, with the  _ khal. _ But her family is no easy thing to forget. Even if she wants to live in peace, there are others who do not want her to live at all. I don’t think she has a choice.”

“That’s true,” he allows. He hadn’t really thought of it that way. “Doreah, what if I told you there were people in Westeros who wanted her to retake the Seven Kingdoms? That there were people who prayed every day for it?”

Doreah seems skeptical. “Viserys believed that same thing, but he was...prone to flattery. The Seven Kingdoms have known nothing but peace since the Usurper took the throne, why should they pray for a daughter who never even knew her kingly father to reclaim it?”

He doesn’t know what to tell her. “Why does anyone do anything?”

She lets out a small laugh. “True. Well, I am glad to know people pray for her return. Perhaps if the Dothraki can conquer their fear of the sea, she will answer their prayers.”

“Do you think they will?”

She shrugs. “Perhaps. Right now, I don’t think Khal Drogo cares enough to take Westeros. The Dothraki don’t understand its size and wealth. They think it’s much like any other city. If they had some idea of what lay beyond the sea, what lands they could ride and rule over, perhaps they would learn to conquer their fear of the sea.”

“How can we make them understand?”

She laughs. “You’re so eager, Jon Snow.”

He flushes. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” She bites her lip, looking suddenly shy. “Do you want to go...somewhere quiet?”

“Quiet?” he echoes a beat before realizing her meaning. He flushes even harder. “Oh.”

“I don’t want to be alone,” she explains, moving closer. “And I can’t sleep, and I thought perhaps…”

Unbidden, his cock jumps in his pants. He cannot deny that Doreah is extremely pretty, but…

“I am flattered,” he says, stepping back. “Truly. I just...it doesn’t feel right, after...earlier.”

She looks disappointed. “I understand.”

“Some other time,” he finds himself promising. 

“Some other time,” she echoes. 

In truth, Jon has never been with a woman, nor had he planned for that to change anytime soon. Robb and Theon had tried to get him to bed a whore in the Winter Town, but when the time came, he couldn’t bring himself to it. They’d laughed at him, and Jon had let them. They’d laugh at him again if they could see him now. A woman is  _ asking _ to bed him, with no expectation of payment or favors, nothing to gain from it at all, and he’s turning her down. 

_ Ass.  _

.

The shock of Viserys’s death fades over time. Jorah sends a message to Queen Lyanna through the Western Market; until she responds, Jon doesn’t know what to do. Viserys is dead, one head of the dragon missing, and Khal Drogo seems as confident as ever that the world ends at the black salt sea. 

“You must convince him otherwise,” Daenerys begs Jorah, but the knight can only do so much. 

“The treasures of the east are far more tempting to a man like Drogo,” he tells her. “The Dothraki do things in their own time; have patience, princess. Do not make the same mistake as your brother and seek a hasty conquest.”

It matters little; Drogo and his men are off hunting, seeking a rare white lion spotted in the mountains, so any conversation about Westeros must wait. 

“Perhaps you would like to visit the Western Market,” Jorah proposes as a means of distraction. “A caravan arrived last night; the captain may have letters from Illyrio, or news from Westeros.” He glances at Jon, who takes his meaning at once.

_ News from Westeros...and perhaps, my mother. _

He still doesn’t know how to tell Daenerys who he is, or if he even should. Would she welcome another Targaryen now that she thinks she is the last one? Or would his announcement feel callous, like a betrayal? He must wait for word from his mother, and then decide.

Jorah and Jon leave Daenerys with her handmaids and bloodriders, seeking out the captain of the caravan. 

“Do you think she would have written back so soon?” Jon asks. “It takes a long time to cross the Narrow Sea.”

“It does,” Jorah agrees. “But it’s worth checking all the same.”

To Jon’s relief, there  _ is _ a letter from Lyanna, but it was sent before they wrote to her of Viserys’s death. 

_ Robert has hired an assassin for Daenerys. A wine merchant in Vaes Dothrak who will offer her his finest vintage. Stop him at all costs.  _

Jon’s face pales. “We left her alone…”

Jorah swears. “We have to find her.” 

Jon tears after the other man, his heart pounding. She could be drinking that wine even now.  _ Please, please don’t let us be too late. _

They find Daenerys at a wineseller’s stall, and Jon’s pounding heart crashes to a stop when he sees Daenerys’s bloodriders taking a cask.

“No,” Jorah says brusquely, surprising the others. “Aggo, put down that cask.”

Confused, Daenerys gives a hesitant nod to her waiting bloodrider. “Ser Jorah, is something wrong?” 

“I have a thirst. Open it, wineseller.”

The wineseller’s ratlike face twitches, a man trying desperately not to betray himself. “The wine is for the  _ khaleesi _ , not for the likes of you.”

“Open it,” Jon snaps, agitated with a nervous sort of anger. “Or I will.”

The wineseller glances between them all, and seeing the bloodriders frown, he breaks open the cask. 

“Pour,” Jorah orders. 

The wineseller licks his lips. His forehead begins to shine with sweat. “It would be a crime to drink wine of this vintage without first letting it breathe.”

“Do as he says,” Daenerys orders.

The wineseller nods uncertainly. “As the princess commands.” He lifts a small glass to the cask, just enough for a taste, and fills it with red wine. Jorah takes it, holding it up to his nose and smelling. 

“Sweet, isn’t it?” the wineseller asks anxiously. “Can you smell the fruit, ser? The perfume of the Arbor. Taste it, my lord, and tell me it’s not the finest, richest wine that’s ever touched your tongue.”

_ My lord,  _ Jon notes.  _ My lord and not ‘ser’. He is afraid, though whether that’s because he’s guilty or not remains to be seen.  _

Jorah holds out the small glass. “Drink.”

“Me?” The wine seller attempts a laugh, but there is no mirth in it. “I am not worthy of the vintage, my lord. And it’s a poor merchant who drinks up his own wares.”

“You  _ will _ drink,” Daenerys orders. 

The wineseller takes the glass...and flings it at his wagon, vaulting through the crowd. One of Daenerys’s bloodriders snaps his whip and catches the wineseller around the ankle. The traitor falls to the ground while onlookers gasp; the bloodriders have him surrounded by the time the merchant captain appears, regret scrawled all over his face. He apologizes over and over as Daenerys’s bloodriders drag the wineseller back to their encampment, even going so far as to offer the rest of the man’s wares, but Jon has a feeling Daenerys has had enough of wine for now. 

“How did you know?” she asks Jorah as he steers her back to her litter. 

“Best not to talk about it here,  _ khaleesi. _ ”

When they return to the encampment, Daenerys dismisses all but Jorah and Jon. 

“How did you know?” she asks again, clutching her belly. 

Jon speaks before he can think, knowing only that the longer the pause, the more suspicious she would become. “My mother wrote me with a warning, my lady.” It’s the truth, isn’t it? 

“Your mother?” Daenerys echoes in confusion. 

He bows his head. “Yes, my lady. She is invested in restoring House Targaryen to the Iron Throne. She has friends in high places; she must have learned from one of them about the attempt on your life.”

Daenerys’s eyes fill with tears. “He was sent by the Usurper?”

“I would say it’s more likely the real assassin coerced him,” Jorah speaks up. “The wineseller knew much about his craft and showed too much distress when confronted; if he is an assassin, he is a very poor one, and not the sort that would be recruited by the small council. More likely the real assassin gave him the poison...a mistake he is not like to replicate.”

Tears streak down her cheeks. “So he’s still out there? The real assassin?”

“He could be. Jon and I will question the wineseller and see if he will be more forthcoming. Your  _ khas _ will keep you safe until Khal Drogo returns. Mind that your maids prepare your food themselves.”

She nods fretfully. “I will.”

His voice gentles. “All will be well, princess; no harm shall come to you or your child. Is there anything I can do for you before I leave?”

She hesitates. “Would you light the brazier for me?”

That surprises Jon, who is, as he always seems to be these days, covered in a light sheen of sweat. “My lady? It’s so hot.”

“I have a chill,” she says, even though her own hair has started to frizz with the humidity. 

Jon and Jorah light the brazier, bowing as they leave. Jorah exchanges some words in Dothraki with her  _ khas _ before leading Jon to the feast hall, where Daenerys’s  _ khas _ have tied up the wineseller and kept a careful eye on him. Before they reach the hall, however, Jorah pulls Jon to the side, his blue eyes searching Jon’s.

“Jon...I don’t know much about you or why you’re here. But now I have to ask...when you said your mother sent a message...was that true?”

Jon swallows. He hadn’t thought about it when he said it, but now, he realizes what a foolish mistake that was to make. But wasn’t the knight going to learn the truth anyway? Wasn’t that the point of Jon coming here--to announce himself and convince the Targaryens and Dothraki to sail for Westeros? 

“Jon,” Jorah presses, gripping his shirt, “is Lyanna Stark your mother?”

Jon swallows again. “Yes.”

Jorah releases his shirt. “Gods be good.”

“You mustn’t tell anyone,” Jon urges. “Especially not Daenerys.”

The cogs are turning. “Your aunt?”

“My aunt,” Jon agrees, blowing out a breath. “Though I did not know it until a few weeks ago.”

Jorah regards him curiously. “You are Rhaegar’s son--a Targaryen by blood if not in name.”

“Not in name,” Jon agrees. “I am Rhaegar’s son, but I will always be Jon Snow.”

Jorah rubs his chin in wonderment. “All this time, Lyanna Stark was biding her time, waiting until the right moment to avenge Rhaegar’s death.”

Jon shakes his head. “It’s not that. Not exactly. It’s...my father believed that he would sire the prince that was promised. Azor Ahai reborn, to defend the realm when the darkness comes again. But his trueborn children are dead, and though I am his last surviving child, I cannot be a prince. My mother thought perhaps Viserys was the prince that was promised, and sent me here to bring the Targaryens back to Westeros. Viserys is dead, but I think she was wrong; I think Daenerys’s child is the prince that was promised, the stallion who mounts the world. I believe he will lead us into war against the return of the Others.”

Jorah looks at him as if he’s mad. “The Others were defeated eight thousand years ago.”

“Not defeated,” Jon reminds him. “Driven back. Bran the Builder and the Children of the Forest built the Wall to keep them out of the Seven Kingdoms. But they’re coming back. I know they are.”

Jorah looks...skeptical, to put it kindly. 

“I know how it sounds,” Jon allows. “But whether or not you believe that the Others are coming back, you have to swear you don’t tell anyone who my mother really is.”

Jorah hesitates. “When  _ do _ you plan to tell your aunt?”

“I don’t know,” Jon admits. “Soon. But not yet. It has to be the right time.”

Jorah is quiet for a long moment. “I will keep your secret, for as long as I can. But my loyalty is all to Daenerys. Not House Targaryen, not Khal Drogo, but to her.”

_ He loves her, _ Jon realizes with a start.  _ He is loyal to her because he is in love with her.  _

“If it comes down to it...I will choose her over you.”

Jon bows his head. “I hope it will not. She is my kindred and my princess, and I don’t think I’m wrong in saying we both want her son on the Iron Throne.”

“You are not,” Jorah allows. 

“Then let’s question the wineseller and make sure the assassin isn’t lurking within the city.”

.

The wineseller sings like a bird. He doesn’t know the assassin’s name, only that he gave him a fat purse to slip the poison into a cask of wine and see it given to Daenerys.

“Not Viserys?” Jorah questions.

“If Viserys drank and died, so be it,” the wineseller says gloomily. “But Robert Baratheon wants Daenerys and her unborn child dead. I was supposed to find her and offer it to her...but she found me first.”

“And he didn’t come with you? This man who paid you?”

“No. He intercepted the caravan in Qohor. That was the first and last I saw of him.” He breaks into a sweat. “Please, my lords...I was not the one who gave the order. I make little money selling wine, why do you think I come all the way to Vaes Dothrak? I only wanted to establish myself, to buy a house and fill it with children.”

“By killing an innocent woman and her child,” Jon says coldly. “Khal Drogo will decide what to do with you.”

The wineseller starts to cry, big, fat, pathetic tears. “Please,” he begs. “Please, spare me…”

Disgusted, Jon leaves the tent to wait for Khal Drogo. Death is too kind for the wineseller, and Khal Drogo is not a kind man.

.

The  _ khal _ does not return until well into the night. Jorah sends Irri to rouse Daenerys so she can meet her husband in the hall, but there was no need; she was already awake, eager to see her husband again. She waits for him in the hall, eyeing the wineseller.

“What will they do to him?” she asks Jorah, always at her side. How could Jon have not seen it before? Jorah’s affection for her goes beyond a subject’s loyalty to their princess.  _ He loves her, but he will never have her. Not as long as Khal Drogo draws breath. _

“When the  _ khalasar _ rides, he’ll be leashed to a saddle and forced to run behind the horses for as long as he can.”

“And when he falls?” she asks, loud enough that the wineseller will hear.

Jorah gives her a grim sort of smile. “I saw a man last nine miles once.”

She is not amused. “King Robert still wants me dead.”

“This poisoner was the first, but he won’t be the last.”

She lets out a sigh of frustration. “I thought he’d leave me alone, now that my brother is gone.”

“He will never leave you alone,” Jorah says gently. “If you ride to darkest Asshai, his assassins will follow you. If you sailed all the way to the Basilisk Isles, his spies would tell him. He will never abandon the hunt. You’re a Targaryen. The last Targaryen.” His eyes flicker to Jon. “Your son will have Targaryen blood with forty thousand riders behind him.”

“He will not have my son,” Daenerys says firmly. 

“He will not have you either,  _ Khaleesi _ ,” Jorah swears. 

It is at that moment that Khal Drogo enters. He looks at Daenerys for a long moment, taking her in with his eyes, before he turns a scowl to the wineseller. The other man trembles against the pole, sobbing, but Drogo does not bother him...not yet. Instead, he crosses the room to Daenerys, greeting her in Dothraki and holding her with surprising tenderness for one so fierce. 

_ No, _ Jon thinks, looking at Jorah.  _ He will never have her. _

What happens next, Jon only vaguely understands. Drogo speaks in rapid Dothraki, his speech growing faster and louder as he becomes more impassioned. He circles the hearth fire, gesturing wildly as he shouts and screams fierce enough to wake the gods. Jon does not have to speak Dothraki to know his meaning.

_ Fire and blood. _


	10. LYANNA IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GOOD NEWS ALL, I was given a work laptop that I'm allowed to take home and use for personal stuff so I can write and post on an actual computer again!

The clack of sparring swords fills the small courtyard. Cassie, in a silk shirt and specially tailored breeches, advances and retreats, her face screwed up in concentration as Ser Aron Santagar drills her. Robert found the little sword amusing, and had ordered the Red Keep’s master-at-arms to train the princess. Lyanna privately suspects that Ser Aron would rather be doing more important things, but his duty is to his king and he is a patient man. Besides, she has a feeling he might be offended if she brought in a private instructor. 

Dacey Mormont enters with a small curtsy. Like most of Lyanna’s ladies-in-waiting, she is a northerner from an old and noble house. Fat Walda is the only lady-in-waiting who does not hail from the North, but her vivacity and sharp wit make her one of Lyanna’s favorite ladies-in-waiting.

“Your Grace, Lord Arryn is here for you.” 

“Please send him in, Dacey.” Lyanna remains at the screen, watching through the gaps as Cassie’s wooden sword goes flying from her hand. Ser Aron pauses for a moment, his voice floating up through the courtyard as he asks her if she’s alright. She is; not a moment later, the sword is in her hand again.

Jon Arryn clears his throat, sinking into a bow. “Your Grace.”

“Lord Jon.” She beckons him to the window. “Look.”

Cassie thrusts and parries, shouting with each move. 

“You ought to give her a warhammer, like her father,” he remarks.

“Oh, don’t tell Robert, or he won’t rest until she has one.”

Jon Arryn is quiet for a moment, uneasy. He would never press her. Not on this.

It’s Lyanna who breaks the silence, taking a deep, resigned breath. “Well, shall we go?”

He bows. “At your leisure, my queen.”

_ At your leisure. _ As if there is anything leisurely about this. 

Already garbed simply, Lyanna dons a gauzy veil, wrapping it around her head and neck to hide her face. It won’t truly conceal her appearance, not really, but it’s enough to make her look like a simple traveler rather than a queen. Thus apparelled, she and Jon Arryn slip out of the Red Keep and into the Street of Silk. 

Jon keeps close to her side as they walk. He needn’t bother; Barristan Selmy follows at a distance, disguised as another traveler. Of all the knights of the Kingsguard, Lyanna likes Ser Barristan the best. He is the most famous, of course, but more than that, Lyanna trusts him completely. His honor is beyond question, and she knows well that he was fond of Rhaegar. 

_ Perhaps that fondness will sway him to our cause when the Targaryens arrive. _

When they reach the brothel, Jon Arryn ushers her inside, looking pained at having to bring the queen into such a place. 

_ But not pained enough to put a stop to it.  _

She neither likes nor dislikes Jon Arryn. He’s like a father to Ned and Robert, but she believes that so many of the problems of the realm could be solved with a firmer Hand. The last time he stood up to anyone was when Aerys demanded his wards, and he’d said no. Once the rebellion had been won, however, he’d sunk into an old man’s frailty. He never stands up to Robert, not even when he should, choosing instead to quietly clean up after him. 

Which is how Lyanna finds herself in a brothel, standing demurely to the side while Jon asks for Mhaegen. The redhead in the foyer eyes him suspiciously. 

“Mhaegen doesn’t see men, milord.”

A northern girl. Lyanna cannot help but look up. She’s a pretty thing, her hair nearly as red as her lips, all curves beneath her gauzy pink dress. 

_ Had I Robert’s appetite... _

“I don’t want that,” Jon Arryn says, pained. “I am here on behalf of the father of her child. Please, my companion and I would like to see her.”

The redhead’s eyes flicker to Lyanna, catching her staring. She glances back at Jon Arryn, uncertain.

“It’s alright, Ros.”

Lyanna stiffens at the new voice. She tries to tug her veil over her face, but Littlefinger is already making a beeline for her, smirking. 

“Your Grace,” he greets, and the redhead’s eyes widen. 

“Curse you,” Lyanna hisses at Littlefinger.

“Ros is a good girl, she won’t tell. Well, I assume you’ve come to see your husband’s latest progeny? Unless I can tempt you with a woman? Perhaps you’ve grown tired of Lady Melisandre’s...zealousness?”

“Mind your tongue!” Jon Arryn snaps. “Or I’ll have you thrown off the small council and back to the Fingers.”

Littlefinger sketches a mocking bow. “Apologies, my lord—I only meant to jest. Ros, please show our esteemed visitors to Mhaegen’s room.”

Ros leads them silently, throwing glances at them over her shoulder. Lyanna pretends not to notice; she’d be shocked, too, if she saw a queen in a brothel, seeking out her husband’s bastard.

Mhaegen is a slip of a girl, wide-eyed and pretty. And young—so very, very young to have a babe. 

“I was at Chataya’s before,” she explains, rocking the babe in her arms. “But she wouldn’t let me stay. Lord Baelish told me I could stay, as long as I cooked and cleaned and took care of the other girls. He even let me keep Barra.”

_ Barra. For Baratheon. Gods, Robert, you got a child on a child herself. _

“Is this what you want? To stay here?” Lyanna asks her.

Mhaegen is confused. “What do you mean, m’lady?”

“I mean, do you  _ want _ to stay at a brothel, minding the other girls? Or is there something else you’d rather do?”

The look of confusion remains. “I have a place to sleep and food for my child.”

_ She’s probably never known anything else. She probably left her parents’ home and went straight to Chataya’s. _

Lyanna hands her a purse. “This is for you and Barra. If life at Littlefinger’s is not all you wanted, if you ever want more for your child, we’ll be checking in from time to time; you have only to ask.”

Mhaegen remains confused. “Who are you, m’lady?”

“This is Queen Lyanna,” Jon Arryn says sharply. 

Mhaegen’s pretty eyes fill with tears. “Your Grace!” She cries, sinking into an awkward bow. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know...please don’t hurt me!”

“Don’t be silly; I’m not going to hurt you for my husband’s latest indiscretion. If I punished every woman who lay with Robert and birthed his bastards, I’d have a higher death toll than Tywin Lannister. No, I just like to look in after my husband’s offspring and see that they’re well.” She looks at Jon. “Shall we leave, my lord?”

“As you will, my queen.” 

Ros, waiting out in the corridor, accompanies them outside. She looks at Lyanna with something like awe on her face. “Is that true? That you look in on all the king’s bastards?”

“Well,  _ someone _ has to, and it’s not going to be the king,” Lyanna snorts. She stops short, looking Ros in the face. “One Northerner to another...you’ll keep this quiet?”

Ros bows her head. “I grew up in the shadow of Winterfell, Your Grace. I won’t tell a soul.”

That makes Lyanna feel better. Northerners are always more trustworthy than southerners, but the people of Winter Town have always been especially loyal to the Starks. “Good girl.” She leaves the brothel, Jon Arryn and Ser Barristan in tow. “Let us stop by the Street of Steel on the way back.”

“As you say, my queen.”

.

Tobho Mott bows deeply when they call on him; he ushers them inside, well familiar with Lyanna’s wish for privacy, and pours them wine while a servant fetches his apprentice. 

Gendry appears a moment later, dirty and sweaty from the forge. 

“How are you, Gendry?”

“Well, Your Grace,” he says politely. “Thank you.” 

Gendry hadn’t trusted her at first, and she still can’t blame him for that. In many ways, she thinks he’s almost disappointed to know who his father is. Perhaps he’s only disappointed that his own father won’t acknowledge him even though his wife visits him and pays for his apprenticeship. He’s come around since then, though. They still aren’t what Lyanna would call close or even very friendly, but he doesn’t scowl at her the way that he used to, and sometimes he asks about his brothers and sisters. She doesn’t tell him about Barra, though; somehow, she feels he might not like the idea of his father bedding a woman barely out of girlhood. 

_ Not that he likes anything Robert does, and how can I blame him for that? _

He shows her a bull’s head helm he’s made, polished and black. It’s fine work, and even Jon and Ser Barristan voice their approval. 

“He’s a fine smith,” Tobho Mott gushes—though whether that’s because he means it or because he’s only trying to please the queen…

She looks at Gendry. “This is still what you want, Gendry? To be a smith?”

He bows his head. “Yes, Your Grace. I like working with metal.”

She nods. “You know that if you ever change your mind, you have only to ask.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Satisfied, Lyanna takes her leave, but not before requesting a commission of Gendry.

“It shall be done,” Tobho promises. “I will help Gendry myself.”

Lyanna presses coins into his and Gendry’s hands before pulling her veil back over her head.

“He’s got the build of a warrior,” Ser Barristan notes as they leave. 

“I’d make him a squire in a heartbeat if he asked,” Lyanna says. “But he seems to like the forge. Just as well; there are thousands of boys clamoring to become knights, and not enough boys with the patience to smith. While they’re playing with swords, he’s making and mending them.” She sighs. “But what am I to do with that insipid little girl from Littlefinger’s brothel?”

Jon clears his throat. “If I could speak freely, Your Grace?” 

“Please do.”

“I would advise you to remove her as soon as you are able. Littlefinger can mean nothing good by keeping her there. He’s not the sort of man to take in a woman and her basborn child out of the kindness of his heart. He wants something.”

“He should be removed from the small council,” Ser Barristan says, quiet but fierce. “The way he spoke to you, my queen…”

_ He can do whatever he likes, _ she thinks gloomily.  _ He knows my secret. _

“I will speak to Robert. In truth, I fear he does have something up his sleeve, and removing him from the small council may have unforeseen consequences.”

“I fear you are right.” Jon’s face is grim. “He would not be so bold if he did not think he could get away with it.”

Lyanna hesitates. Poison would be the most effective way to deal with Littlefinger, but men like Jon Arryn and Barristan the Bold are honorable to a fault, and they would see poison as a coward’s weapon.  _ A woman’s weapon. _ She’ll have to find some other way to deal with the Master of Coin.

.

There are two messages waiting for Lyanna when she returns to the Red Keep. The first is a raven’s scroll from Ned, announcing that he is  _ finally  _ accepting her invitation to come south. That makes her happy. She’ll have to start making arrangements for him and his family. Seeing Catelyn again should put a smile on even Lysa’s severe face. And Cassie will love seeing her cousins again so soon. Perhaps her helm will be finished by then. 

The second message is a letter written on sheepskin, delivered to Melisandre by a servant of R’hllor. It’s from Jorah, who offers good news and bad. The good news is that Jon has arrived safely in Vaes Dothrak. The bad is  _ very _ bad.

“What is it, my queen?” Melisandre asks, brow drawn in concern.

Lyanna swallows. “Viserys is dead.” 

Melisandre takes her hands. “Come. Look into the fire with me, Your Grace.”

“What good will that do?” Lyanna asks in a hollow voice. “He’s dead, there’s no changing that. The dragon has three heads but now there are only two.” She lets out a hysterical sort of laugh. “Not even that many. Jon is a bastard, whatever Rhaegar believed, and Daenerys is married to a Dothraki  _ khal. _ Is her name even Targaryen anymore? What if the dragon has  _ no _ heads?”

“Look into the fire with me,” Melisandre says again. “The Lord of Light will show us the way.”

“I don’t want to.”

But Melisandre leads her to the fire anyway, wrapping her arms around her and pointing to the flames. “Look into the flames, my queen, and tell me what you see.”

“I don’t see anything,” Lyanna says stubbornly...until she does see something. A fire, a bigger fire than her hearth, one that destroys and also creates, and from it emerges a dragon with three heads. 


	11. JON V

For all his training, for all the sparring lessons he’d had with Ser Rodrik, nothing could have prepared Jon for real war. 

It’s one thing, he realizes, for your wooden sword to smack your brother’s padded shirt and for him to yield. It’s quite another to watch a curved  _ arakh _ arc through the air and end a person’s life with one fell stroke. 

Worse still, he thinks, is when it doesn’t take one fell stroke; when the blade misses and the victim stumbles away, bloody and hurt but still alive. They have to wait for the  _ jaqqa rhan _ , the mercy men, to end their misery with their axes. If the children are not too badly hurt, they’ll be herded away to await a lifetime of slavery. If they’re women and girls, the same will happen to them, but they’ll be raped first. 

It disgusts Jon to watch it happen. The Lhazareen men don’t even have weapons. These are peaceful people, not enemies. What have they done to deserve being struck down?

The women of the  _ khalasar _ follow the mercy men, collecting arrows. Behind them come the dogs, hungry for fresh meat. The dead lie mainly piled on the mud roads, with some bloody corpses lying mere feet from their houses. Some of the warriors herd the survivors into pens to wait for a slave’s collar. Later, they will be sold, and the money they make will buy ships to sail across the Narrow Sea.

“Is there no other way?” Jon asks Jorah.

Jorah has the good grace to look uneasy. “None. A fleet big enough to carry both Drogo and Ogo’s  _ khalasars _ is costly; only slaves can fetch such a high price.”

Drogo hadn’t stopped at the Lhazareen; once the townsfolk had been taken, Drogo had killed Khal Ogo and his son and claimed their  _ khalasar _ as his. Ogo’s riders had become Drogo’s, and the women and children became his slaves. 

_ Is this what my mother had in mind? Is this how Daenerys means to win her throne? _

Daenerys, however, seems equally uneasy; her face as hard as stone, she orders the men to stop raping the women. Her  _ khas _ seem confused, but they do as she bids, pulling their fellow Dothraki off of the screaming women and cutting them down when they refuse.

“You cannot claim them all, princess,” Jorah warns her. 

“I can. And I will.”

.

When they arrive in the pavilion, Khal Drogo is already seated, scratched and dirty but mostly unharmed. A Dothraki warrior speaks quickly and angrily, gesturing at Daenerys and her women. Jon doesn’t have to speak their tongue to understand the conversation that unfolds; the warrior is angry that Daenerys stopped him from raping, and she wants Khal Drogo to support her. When he only chuckles, the other warrior grows angry. He spits at Drogo’s feet, raising his  _ arakh _ ; Jon and Jorah pull Daenerys out of harm’s way as Drogo rises to the challenge.

It doesn’t last long; Drogo is the better warrior by far, and it’s a matter of seconds before he cuts open the other man’s throat and rips out his tongue. Once, such a sight might have shocked Jon, but he’s grown used to the casual violence of the Dothraki--and given all he’s seen today, a ripped out tongue is hardly the worst. 

The dead warrior’s  _ arakh _ left a gash on Drogo’s shoulder; in the Common Tongue, one of the women Daenerys rescued offers to heal him.

“I am named Mirri Maz Duur. I was the godswife of this temple,” she explains. 

“ _ Maegi _ ,” the Dothraki call her suspiciously.  _ Witch. _ But Drogo lets her inspect and clean the wound nonetheless. 

One of his bloodriders growls something to Jorah.

“What did he say?” Jon asks.

Jorah looks grave. “He says as the  _ khal _ fares, so shall she.”

.

The  _ khalasar _ makes west for Meereen, where Jorah believes they’ll have the most luck selling the slaves. There was a plague last year, and they lost many of their own stock.

The whole thing turns Jon’s stomach. He wants to write to his mother and ask for her advice. He cannot believe she’d condone putting people in chains and selling them, even if it did mean restoring House Targaryen to the Iron Throne. Perhaps in Meereen he’ll abandon the  _ khalasar _ and return home. Daenerys can take the Seven Kingdoms on her own now; why should she need him? And why should he need her? 

_ I came here to bring her home. She’s going home, with an army at her back and a prince in her belly. Let me go home, where I can talk with my mother and wait out the war.  _

Jorah is not blind to Jon’s disgust.

“You may be Rhaegar’s son by birth, but you are Ned Stark’s son in every other respect,” he comments.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jorah hesitates. “Do you know why I came here, Jon? To Essos?”

Jon shakes his head. “No.”

Jorah takes a deep breath. “I sold poachers on my land to slavers.”

Jon nearly falls off his horse. “You  _ what _ ? Why?!”

“I was desperate,” Jorah admits. “I’d fallen in love with a woman--Lynesse Hightower--and she with me. Hers was an honorable family from Oldtown, yet somehow, she’d convinced her father to give me her hand. Me, a lesser lord from the North. Perhaps her own father was tired of her...wants. She was used to fine things, and Bear Island was disappointing. I spent more than I could afford to make her happy, and when that wasn’t enough, I resorted to selling men poaching off my land. Your lordly uncle found out soon enough and came for me; I took Lynesse and fled to Essos with my tail between my legs. He found slavery as distasteful as you do, and I have no doubt he’d have executed me had I remained behind.”

Jon is troubled at this. Jorah, the only person who knows his secret, the only person he can halfway trust in this strange land, has sold men into slavery...and for what? To keep happy a spoilt wife?

“Your wife…” Jon says slowly. “She isn’t here with you.”

“No,” Jorah agrees. “She’s in Lys. I became a sellsword, but all of our earnings she spent tenfold. When I was fighting Braavosi on the Rhoyne, she moved into the manse of Tregar Ormollen, a merchant prince. He threatened to enslave me if I did not give her up...so I did. I left for Volantis, and the last I heard, she became his chief concubine. It is said even his wife goes in fear of her.”

Though disgusted by Jorah’s confession, Jon cannot help but pity him also. All he did, he did for a woman...and she repaid him by leaving him for another man. 

_ Lynesse, Daenerys. He will always love women who cannot love him back. _

.

The call comes from up ahead that they’re stopping to make camp for the night. It’s still broad daylight, the afternoon sun high in the sky, and all around them is harsh, stony ground. 

“Here?” Jon asks dubiously, but the Dothraki are already laying down their tents and building fires. 

It doesn’t take long to find out why; the word on every tongue is that Khal Drogo fell off his horse. 

“It must be grave indeed,” Jorah muses. “We should find Daenerys. If he’s truly ill...it will be worse for her if she stays.”

“Worse?”

“A  _ khal _ who cannot ride is no  _ khal _ . If he is ill for more than a day, the Dothraki will grow restless. If he does not recover in full, they will choose a new leader and leave him in the dust.”

Jon doesn’t understand. “But her son...he’s the stallion who mounts the world…”

“He was. But he is a threat to whichever  _ ko _ seeks to rule, and they will kill him. They’ll wait until he is born and kill him then and there before sending Daenerys to Vaes Dothrak to become one of the  _ dosh khaleen _ if they are kind. If they are not, they’ll cut him from her belly and leave her to die.”

Jon is horrified by the thought, but somehow, he knows it to be true. Tywin Lannister had had Aegon and Rhaenys killed when he took the Red Keep, even though they’d been babes in their mother’s arms, and Robert has sent an assassin after Daenerys and her child both. Why should the Dothraki be any less cruel?

.

They find Daenerys in a tent with Khal Drogo. The Dothraki is fevered and glistening with sweat. 

“Talk goes from mouth to ear, all over the  _ khalasar _ ,” Jorah says. “It is said Khal Drogo fell from his horse.” 

“He’s strong,” Daenerys insists. “No one understands how  _ strong _ he is.”

Wordlessly, Jorah kneels beside Drogo, pulling out a knife. For a moment, Jon thinks he means to kill the  _ khal _ ...but then he cuts away the mud and grass plaster on Drogo’s chest and reveals a corrupted wound. The stench fills the tent, and Daenerys’s maids groan in dismay.

“He will die tonight,” Jorah says softly. 

“He won’t,” she insists. “I won’t  _ let _ him.”

_ Poor Daenerys,  _ Jon thinks. In so many ways, he forgets she’s still half a child.

“ _ Khaleesi _ or queen, that command is beyond your power,” Jorah tells her, not unkindly. “Save your tears, child. Weep for him tomorrow, or a year from now. We do not have time for grief. We must go, and quickly, before he dies. I’ve heard there’s a good port in Asshai. We will find a ship to take us back to Pentos. It will be a hard journey, make no mistake.” 

“I can’t leave him,” Daenerys says, but even her resolve is wavering. 

“He’s already gone,  _ khaleesi _ .”

“Even if…” She swallows. “If he dies…I don’t understand. Why should we flee? I am  _ khaleesi. _ I carry Drogo’s heir. He will be  _ khal _ after Drogo…” 

“Princess, hear me. This isn’t Westeros. The Dothraki will not follow a suckling babe. Drogo’s strength was what they bowed to, and only that. When he is gone, Jhaqo and Pono and the other  _ kos _ will fight for his place, and this  _ khalasar _ will devour itself. The winner will want no more rivals. The boy will be taken from your breast the moment he is born and given to the dogs.”

“But why?” she asks, her lip trembling with unshed tears. “Why should they kill a little baby?” 

“He is Drogo’s son, and the crones say he will be the stallion who mounts the world. It was prophesied. Better to kill the child than to risk his fury when he grows to manhood.” 

“They must not hurt my son!” she cries. “I will order my  _ khas _ to keep him safe, and Drogo’s bloodriders will—” 

Jorah cuts her off before she can grow too impassioned. “A bloodrider dies with his  _ khal _ . You know that, child. They will take you to Vaes Dothrak, to the crones, that is the last duty they owe him in life… when it is done, they will join Drogo in the night lands...if they do not seek to take his place here first.”

Daenerys’s face hardens. “I will not leave him. I will not.” 

The tent flap opens then, and through it comes the godswife Mirri Maz Duur. She kneels beside Drogo, examining him. “The wound has festered,” she says in the Common Tongue.

Drogo’s bloodrider, Qotho, speaks in angry Dothraki. The words he and Daenerys exchange are unpleasant, and Jon can guess that he’s warning her not to rely on the  _ maegi _ .

“That one means you no good, Princess,” Jorah says when Qotho leaves them. “The Dothraki say a man and his bloodriders share one life, and Qotho sees it ending. A dead man is beyond fear.” 

“No one has died,” Daenerys reminds him forcefully. Then, gentler, “Ser Jorah, I may have need of your blade. Best go don your armor.” 

“As you say.” 

Jon, who has a sword but no armor, follows Jorah from the tent. “We should take her and leave.”

“I agree, but she will not go. Besides, it’s broad daylight. Better to flee under cover of night. Her  _ khas _ might protect us, if it comes down to it, but perhaps the  _ kos _ will leave us be if they know she means to return to Pentos. They have no reason to fear a boy who is only half Dothraki and raised in a manse in Pentos.”

Jon feels his chest ache. “I promised my mother I would bring both the Targaryens and a Dothraki army across the Narrow Sea. Now I have one Targaryen and no army, and I won’t even make it across the Narrow Sea.”

“There will be time enough for that. Daenerys’s dragon eggs will fetch a good price, and Illyrio Mopatis has wealth enough. You’ll keep your promise to your mother—but first, we must protect Daenerys.”

Jon helps Jorah don his armor; the other man has been doing it himself for years, but Jon feels as though he needs to help. He needs to do  _ something _ lest his own doubts and fears get the better of him. 

When they are both armed, they go back to Daenerys. Her appearance unsettles Jon; blood trickles down her face, and it takes him a long moment to realize that it isn’t hers. In her tent, what sounds like a chorus of women chant with Mirri Maz Duur, her voice oddly distorted. Instinctively, Jon knows that Drogo lies within that tent...and something else that is not quite human. 

“What have you done?” Jorah asks softly.

“I have to save him,” Daenerys insists, but her voice is weary, exhausted. Jon doesn’t know what is happening, but he knows it isn’t good. 

“We could’ve been ten miles from here on the way to Asshai,” Jorah tells her, but it’s too late for that. 

_ She’ll never leave Drogo, not even if it kills her.  _

A shriek unlike anything Jon has ever heard before cracks the sky. Qotho pushes his way out of the throng, spitting insults at Daenerys. One of her bloodriders, Rakharo, tries to placate him, but this only further maddens Qotho; he knocks the other man aside and pushes Daenerys to the ground. Jon and Irri lunge to help her, fearful for her and the child, but Qotho has no such cares; he makes for the tent, stopping only when Jorah draws his sword.

Armed and armored as he is, Jon doesn’t believe Jorah will ever survive. He draws his own sword, standing protectively over Daenerys as Qotho swings his  _ arakh _ . Blade meets blade, steel kisses steel, and though he is weighed down by heavy armor, Jorah misses every single one of Qotho’s cuts, and when the time comes, it’s Jorah who delivers the killing blow.

_ Here We Stand _ , Jon remembers, and feels an odd surge of pride. 

The knight sheathes his sword as if it were nothing. “Are you hurt?” he asks Daenerys, who still lies in Irri’s arms. 

“The baby...is coming…” she groans. 

_ So soon? _ Jon wonders in a panic. That can’t be good. Women birth babies early all the time, he knows, but out here, in the middle of the desert, with enemies all around?

“Where are the midwives?” Jorah barks, and for the first time, Jon sees the lord of Bear Island in place of the ragged sellsword.

“They will not come,” Rakharo explains. “They say she is cursed.”

Jon and Jorah lift the princess off the ground, and though it cannot be easy in his armor, Jorah bears her full weight. Jon looks around, desperate. How can the midwives not come? How can no one help their  _ khaleesi _ , their queen? 

_ There is one person who would help.  _

“The godswife,” he realizes, glancing at the tent. “She’s a healer. If the midwives will not come…”

Wordlessly, Jorah carries the mumbling Daenerys into the tent. Jon follows, and instantly wishes he had not. 

Shadows dance all over the tent, though they have more life than any mere shadow. Grotesquely shaped, the shadows scream and sing, and though their tongue is nothing Jon has ever heard before, he somehow knows that the words being chanted are not meant for him. 

Beyond them, he can see Mirri Maz Duur chanting and swaying. Before her lie a fallen horse and Khal Drogo’s still, bloody body. 

“What is happening here?” Jorah asks in shock. 

Mirri Maz Duur turns to look at them, a queer look on her face. 

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“Her time is upon her,” Jon explains. “The midwives will not help.”

Mirri Maz Duur glances at Daenerys, blood trickling down her forehead. She says something in a foreign tongue, some curse, Jon thinks, before waving her hands. The shadows disappear, or maybe just draw back while Jorah sets Daenerys on her bed and the godswife leans over her. 

“Will her handmaids come?” she asks.

“I’ll find them.” Jon stumbles out of the tent, blinking against the brightness outside. 

Doreah comes forward first, hesitant. “Jon?”

“The godswife needs you. All three of you.”

Doreah, Irri, and Jhiqui exchange looks, but they nod their heads and creep into the tent. Jorah exits a long moment later, his face ashen. 

“Is she alright?” Jon asks desperately. “Will she be alright?”

Jorah shakes his head. “She’s at the mercy of the gods now.”

Jon looks around him. There are no gods out here. 

Daenerys is on her own.


	12. SANSA I

Every single day, Sansa looks around her and thinks,  _ this is the farthest from home I’ve ever been. _

Far from feeling nervous or homesick, she only feels excitement. Soon, she’ll be in King’s Landing, the capital of the Seven Kingdoms. She’ll meet glittering lords and ladies, handsome knights, and visitors from exotic lands. If the gods are good, she’ll even meet her future husband, a brave and handsome man of noble birth. 

Her aunt’s red woman had said that her fortune lay  _ where the stars fall and grow dark. _

“She said that about  _ both _ of us,” Jeyne reminds her. Jeyne’s father had allowed her to come even though he himself remains in Winterfell. He and Maester Luwin have charge of the castle while the Starks are gone, but Jeyne had begged and pleaded until her father gave his permission. Mother and Father had even promised to look after her and try to find a suitable match for her. Sansa isn’t optimistic; the Pooles are a lesser family, and Vayon is a steward. Who will want to marry a steward’s daughter with little to her name?

“That’s true,” Sansa admits. “But what do you think it means?”

“I don’t know, but it sounds exciting.”

It  _ does _ sound exciting, even if neither of them knows what it means. Where on earth do the stars fall and grow dark? Is it a riddle? And why is that where  _ both _ their fortunes lie? 

“Septa?” she asks over breakfast one morning. “Where do the stars fall and grow dark?”

Septa Mordane harrumphs. “Sansa, I’ve told you time and again, do  _ not _ listen to that charlatan. People like that always speak in the vaguest terms so that everything they say will come true.”

“But is there such a place?” Jeyne asks.

“It could be Asshai,” Arya pipes up. 

Sansa looks at her with interest. “Asshai?”

“Asshai by the Shadow,” Arya says, ignoring Septa Mordane’s scowl. “The Shadow Lands are always dark, except at noon. They live in eternal darkness. They say not even the stars shine there. Maybe that’s what Melisandre meant.”

Sansa frowns. “I don’t want to live in Asshai.”

“You don’t have to  _ live _ there,” Arya points out. “That’s just where your fortune lies.”

Septa Mordane brings her hand sharply to the table. “ _ Enough _ . Sansa, you know better than to listen to such a person.”

“My aunt listens to her, and she’s the queen,” Sansa counters. “Are you saying my aunt ought to know better?”

Septa Mordane’s face darkens, but she purses her lips. No matter her feelings about Melisandre, Sansa knows the septa is far too dutiful to speak ill of the queen. 

“May we be excused, Septa?”

Septa Mordane only gives a curt nod, and the three girls spring from their seats to go outside. 

It’s much more entertaining out here; Rickon is riding on Shaggydog’s back, and both boy and wolf are terrorizing the camp. Robb and Bran are following, Grey Wind, Ghost, and Summer trying to corner Shaggydog, but the black wolf is slippery and unpredictable. 

“Nymeria, go,” Arya orders, and her own wolf lopes off to help her brothers.

Lady stays at Sansa’s side; she’s far too dignified for such things, and prefers the company of humans to wolves. 

Theon, watching the scene unfold with amusement, nods a greeting at the girls. “They’ve been at it half an hour.”

“Rickon should’ve stayed behind,” Arya declares. “He didn’t want to come anyway, and Shaggydog will hate being chained up.”

“He should get to see the capital,” Sansa insists. “Everyone should. He’ll like it once we’re there.”

“He won’t; he’ll have to behave himself even more than at home, and he hates that.”

And, well, she  _ does _ have a point.

“He’ll be fine,” Theon says, unconcerned. “We’ll all be there to look after him.”

“Yes, you’re doing such a good job of it now,” Jeyne giggles.

Theon raises his eyebrows. “Is that a challenge, Lady Poole?”

“Maybe,” Jeyne says, and her giggles increase tenfold when Theon lopes out into the fray. Shaggydog barrels him over when he gets too close, but he deftly reaches up to scratch the direwolf’s belly. From there it’s almost comically easy to calm down the wolf; he sinks to the ground, Rickon rolling off his back, and snuffles for more pets. Rickon forgets his earlier wildness to pet Shaggydog, and boy and wolf are both placated. Theon throws a grin at Jeyne.

_ He’s showing off, _ Sansa realizes.  _ Jeyne’s flirting with him and he’s flirting right back. _

That unsettles her. Jeyne has always looked at boys with soft eyes--Sansa had nearly screamed when she learned Jeyne dreamt of marrying Robb--but this is somehow different. Theon is the son of a traitor, and if Balon Greyjoy tries to rebel again, Father will take Theon’s head. Jeyne oughtn’t to flirt with someone like that. She’s only a steward’s daughter, but she deserves better. Someone who isn’t the son of a disgraced lord. Even if Balon Greyjoy dies and Theon becomes Lord of the Iron Islands, they’re the  _ Iron Islands _ ; who would want to live there? Jeyne would be miserable, and Sansa would never get to see her. 

Not that there’s any talk of marriage, but if truth be told, it would be a sensible match. Jeyne is the daughter of a lesser lord with hardly any lands or retainers; the Greyjoys would have nothing to gain from such a match, and the Pooles, what’s left of them, would inherit lands and titles. 

Sansa’s indignation flares. Theon can’t do this to her friend. Melisandre said that her  _ and _ Jeyne’s fortunes lie where the stars fall and grow dark. Sansa’s pretty sure that no one’s ever said the stars fall and grow dark on the Iron Islands. 

_ He’ll ruin everything if he takes her away from me. So I just won’t let him. _

.

It gets warmer and warmer as they head farther south. Sansa finds herself riding without her cloak, something that never happens even on the hottest days in the North. One day, she, Jeyne, and Arya even go to the stream by their campsite, take off their clothes, and swim in sun-warmed water. Lady and Nymeria join them, enjoying the swim. 

It’s all very well until Jeyne swims back from her foray upstream, giggling madly. 

“The boys are just upstream of us, and  _ they’re _ naked too.”

“Jeyne!” Sansa yelps, horrified. “Did you look at them?!”

Jeyne only snickers into the water.

_ Did she see Theon? Did she like what she saw? _

“We should play a prank on them,” Arya declares.

“Like what?”

“Steal their clothes.”

“We can’t,” Sansa protests, but Jeyne thinks it’s a good idea, so she and Arya climb out of the stream and put on their clothes. Sansa doesn’t want to be the only one left behind, so she dresses too, following Arya and Jeyne upstream. She almost regrets telling Jeyne to be kinder to Arya; if she hadn’t said anything, Jeyne would have laughed at Arya and they wouldn’t be on their way to stealing the boys’ clothes.

They creep through the foliage, careful not to make a sound. The boys are indeed naked in the stream; Robb and Theon are stirring up the water while they wrestle, Bran and Rickon sitting on the bank and cheering. Several times one or both of their...their  _ things _ can be seen, and Sansa looks away with pink cheeks. Jeyne has no such reservations; she stifles her giggles, watching admiringly. 

Arya points; their clothes are down by the stream, and there’s no way to get them without being seen. 

“Oh well,” Sansa whispers, relieved. “I suppose we’ll have to go…”

“Nymeria,” Arya orders. “Clothes.” 

And Nymeria, the  _ traitor _ , lopes down the hillside, snatching up the boys’ clothes. It’s too late by the time they see her; they shout and cover themselves, but Nymeria trots proudly up the hill, displaying her findings for her mistress to see. Arya takes the clothes, and together, the three girls bolt up the hillside, shrieking with laughter when Robb and Theon curse them. 

.

It doesn’t take long for Mother and Father to learn what the girls got up to. Father takes the clothes back to the boys while Septa Mordane makes the girls write lines--a task they loathe. 

They’re still working on their lines when Robb, Theon, Bran, and Rickon troop in, looking as indignant as they can given the circumstances. Septa Mordane has stepped out, and Sansa is sure that her brothers and Theon are going to harass them. 

“It wasn’t my idea,” she blurts. 

“Traitor,” Arya snaps.

Jeyne bursts into nervous giggles.

Robb folds his arms over his chest. “Just what did you girls think you were doing?”

“Making you look stupid,” Arya says bluntly. “It worked, didn’t it?”

“You little--”

Robb lunges for Arya, but she flies out of her seat, dodging the other three while she tears out of the room. Bran and Rickon give chase, Robb hot on their heels as the younger Starks scream. Only Theon remains, arms crossed over his chest as he smirks at Jeyne. 

“Like what you saw?”

Jeyne buries her face in her hands, shoulders shaking with embarrassed laughter. 

Sansa scowls. “You’re disgusting, Theon Greyjoy.”

He shrugs, still smirking, and backs out of the room. 

Sansa glances at Jeyne, who’s red-faced and giddy. 

_ Oh no. _

Sansa tears out of the room and after Theon, who’s walking at a leisurely pace, watching Arya scamper around the yard while her brothers give chase. Even the wolves are in on it, running in excited circles as their children play.

“Stop flirting with Jeyne,” Sansa orders.

Theon raises his eyebrows. “What’s it to you, little Stark?”

That throws her, because how is she supposed to explain to Theon that he’s simply not good enough for the likes of Jeyne?

“Are you jealous?”

Her face wrinkles in disdain. “Gods, no! But Jeyne is going to marry a  _ nice _ person, not...not someone like  _ you _ , who’s going to take her away to the Iron Islands where I’ll never see her again.”

A bark of laughter escapes his lips. “I don’t plan on marrying anytime soon, little Stark, and even if I did, it wouldn’t be to a steward’s daughter.”

It is at that moment that Sansa realizes Jeyne is standing at the door to the inn, watching and listening. Her face falls, and she retreats back inside.

Sansa rounds on Theon. “Now look what you’ve done!”

“What?” he asks defensively, though there’s a flicker of uncertainty behind his eyes. “It’s the truth.”

Sansa is brimming with rage. “Don’t talk that way about Jeyne! At least her father isn’t a traitor!”

“Sansa!” Septa Mordane shouts, crossing the yard in a fury. “Get back inside this instant!”

Sansa does, but not before seeing the scowl on Theon’s face. She almost feels bad for saying such a thing--but then she sees Jeyne, wiping tears from her eyes, and any regret she’d once had vanishes. She wraps her arms around the other girl, soothing her.

“He’s a fool,” Sansa assures her. “Any man would be lucky to marry you,  _ especially _ a traitor’s son from nowhere. You’ll meet so many handsome men in the capital, knights and lords and foreign princes. Don’t worry, Jeyne; we’ll find you a match.”

But if Theon thinks he’s too good for the likes of Jeyne, what will these knights and lords and foreign princes think?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I couldn't NOT include Theon/Jeyne in this fic.


	13. JON VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp the TRoS trailer was released last night so I have less than two months to finish this fic... o o f

There are no heart trees in the Dothraki Sea. The Northmen believe that the gods cannot hear your prayers if you travel south--or east, or west. 

_ They won’t hear my prayers out here, _ Jon thinks miserably.  _ Daenerys and her child are on their own now.  _

He and Jorah wait for hours. Night has fallen by the time Doreah stumbles out of the tent, her face wan. He and Jorah rise immediately, going to her.

“Doreah?” 

She swallows. “The  _ khaleesi _ ’s child has been born...and died.”

Jon stares at her for a long moment, uncomprehending. 

_ Died. _

“And Daenerys?” Jorah asks hoarsely.

“She lives. She is in a deep sleep, brought on by a fever. The godswife is tending to her now.” She licks her lips. “The child…”

“Was it a boy?” Jon asks.

Her face twists. “It wasn’t a boy, or a girl. It wasn’t even human. It was...a  _ monster _ . Scaled like a lizard, and when the godswife touched it...its skin fell off and inside were worms. Some magic killed her baby.”

Jon draws back, horrified. “I don’t believe you.”

Her face is sorrowful. “It’s true. You can see for yourself.”

Jorah starts for the tent, but the godswife is leaving it now, a bundle of cloth in her arms. She looks grave and exhausted.

“Is that the child?” Jorah demands. 

“This is the creature I drew from the silver lady’s womb.”

“Let me see.”

“Ser Jorah, it’s a monster,” Doreah warns him, but Mirri Maz Duur is already pulling back the cloth. 

Inside is a mess of rotted flesh and wriggling worms, and the stink of death and decay overwhelms the senses. Jon staggers away, his stomach emptying onto the sand below. 

This is Daenerys’s child? This is the prince that was promised?

“What have you done?” Jorah asks lowly.

“Me? It was not I who interrupted the ritual,” Mirri Maz Duur scoffs. “The silver lady knew the price. Only death can pay for life.”

_ Interrupted the ritual. _ Jon feels his stomach turn. It was his idea to bring Daenerys to Mirri Maz Duur, his idea to use the godswife to birth her child.  _ Is this my fault? Did I kill Daenerys’s child? _

“Her son’s death for Khal Drogo’s life?” Jorah asks sharply. 

“Just so.”

“Then he lives?”

Mirri Maz Duur bows her head. “He lives. You can see him yourself if you don’t believe me.” She walks away, still holding the bundle. Jon hopes she burns it, destroys any remainder of it. 

Jorah goes into the tent. Jon starts to follow, but Doreah clutches his arm. 

“He’s not the same,” she warns him. “He’s alive, but only just.”

“What do you mean?” he asks, panicking.

“He just lies there, staring. He is alive, but there is no life left in him.”

Jon hesitates before going into the tent. It reeks of blood and death; everything is covered in crimson splatters. Khal Drogo’s horse still lies prone on the ground, and before him, Khal Drogo’s still body. His chest rises and falls, but he stares up at the ceiling with unseeing eyes. 

Jon tears his eyes away from Drogo to look at Daenerys. Irri and Jhiqui are pressing wet cloths to her brow, murmuring in Dothraki. Bloody cloths and blankets lie scattered everywhere, and all around them is the smell of death.

“She has fever,” Irri explains to him and Jorah. “She will live. She is strong.”

“That she is,” Jorah says gently, but concern is plain on his face. “The  _ khal _ ...can he ride?”

Irri and Jhiqui exchange troubled looks. 

After a long moment, Irri confesses, “I do not think so.”

A  _ khal _ who cannot ride is no  _ khal. _

.

Daenerys sleeps for days. In that time, the  _ khalasar _ falls apart. Word travels quickly of Khal Drogo’s condition, and before long, his bloodriders name themselves  _ khals _ rather than submit to Drogo’s fate. Pono takes thirty thousand men and horses and slaves with him, and Jhaqo takes twenty thousand with him, and on and on it goes until all that remain are the old and weak and frightened. 

Jon despairs at seeing them go. He knows, really, that there was no way to stop them, that if Daenerys’s child had lived, they would have killed him before splitting up. Even so, he somehow feels that this is his doing. He came all this way to bring them west; now they go west, but on the Dothraki Sea, without Daenerys or the prince that was promised. 

While Daenerys sleeps, they learn that they can make Drogo walk and eat and lie down if need be. He goes if you command him, eats if you feed him, but he has no mind or will of his own. Irri tentatively suggests that he seems to like being outside. No one knows why she thinks this or if it’s even true, but it makes them feel better, somehow, when they set him up outside, as if they are doing him a kindness. 

_ Does he truly like anything anymore? Or is this a lie we tell ourselves to feel better about killing him? _

.

Daenerys wakes three times.

The first time, Jhiqui bursts from the tent, crying out for Jorah in hysterical Dothraki. They find Daenerys on the floor of her tent, crawling towards her dragon eggs. Jorah picks her up, carrying her back to her bed while Jon and the others watch, fearful. 

“I must,” Daenerys slurs, her eyes hollow as she tries to struggle. “I have to…”

“Sleep, Princess,” Jorah soothes.

“No. Please. Please.”

“Yes.” He covers her with a silk blanket. “Sleep and grow strong again,  _ Khaleesi. _ Come back to us.”

Mirri Maz Duur gives her a sour-smelling draught, and in moments, Daenerys falls asleep again.

The others leave, but Jon remains, looking at the dragon eggs. He’s never seen them before. They’re hauntingly beautiful, fire made stone, life halted and frozen in time. One is deep green with burnished bronze flecks. The second is pale cream streaked with gold and bronze. The last egg is black, with scarlet swirls and ripples. Once, dragons might have crawled out of these shells. Now, they never will. They are the last of their kind.

_ Just like Daenerys and me. _

_ . _

The second time she wakes, Jon does not see her, only hears about it later. Doreah tells him that she asked for water, lots and lots of it, and before she fell asleep again, she asked for her eggs. 

.

The third time she wakes, she asks for Jon and Jorah. He knows this because Doreah tells him, her pretty eyes wide and fearful. 

They find her standing over the eggs, the pale cream clutched to her chest. 

“Ser Jorah, come here,” she instructs, placing his hand on the black and scarlet. “What do you feel?”

He looks at her dubiously. “Shell, hard as rock. Scales.”

“Heat?”

“No. Cold stone.” He withdraws his hand. “Princess, are you well? Should you be up, weak as you are?”

“Weak? I am strong, Jorah.” Her eyes turn pleadingly to Jon. “What do you feel, Jon Snow?”

He hesitates before touching the deep green. Shell and scales he feels...and something almost like warmth. Not heat, really, but not the cold stone Jorah described. 

“You feel it?” she urges, excited.

He pulls back his hand. “I don’t know what I feel.” He looks at her, pained. “My lady...I’m so sorry.”

Her face crumples, and, weary, she sinks back against her cushions. “You did not know.”

“I only wanted to help you and the child.” His throat is thick. “I swear if I’d known what would happen…”

“It’s alright,” she says softly, but she doesn’t look at him, and he knows that it isn’t. “How did he die?”

“He never lived,” Jorah tells her, his voice laden with sorrow. “He was…”

“Monstrous.”

They all look up to see Mirri Maz Duur. The godswife had kept to herself for much of Daenerys’s slumber, a slave waiting to do as she was bid, but the woman who stands before Jon now is no slave. She is truly a godswife, her power drawn from a higher being, and that power is strong and cruel and dangerous. 

_ She’s been waiting for this, _ Jon realizes.  _ Waiting for revenge against the wife of the man who had her raped and put in chains. _

“Twisted,” she continues, savoring the word. “I drew him forth myself. He was scaled like a lizard, blind, with the stub of a tail and small leather wings like the wings of a bat. When I touched him, the flesh sloughed off the bone, and inside he was full of graveworms and the stink of corruption. He had been dead for years.” 

“My son was alive and strong when Ser Jorah carried me into this tent,” Daenerys protests. “I could feel him kicking, fighting to be born.” 

“That may be as it may be,” the godswife says, unaffected, “yet the creature that came forth from your womb was as I said. Death was in that tent,  _ Khaleesi _ .” 

“Only shadows,” Jorah argues, but even his strong voice falters. “I saw,  _ maegi _ . I saw you, alone, dancing with the shadows. “ 

“The grave casts long shadows, Iron Lord. Long and dark, and in the end no light can hold them back.” 

Daenerys looks as if she could cry. “You warned me that only death could pay for life. I thought you meant the horse.” 

“No. That was a lie you told yourself. You knew the price.” 

Daenerys is at her wit’s end. “The price was paid. The horse, my child, Quaro and Qotho, Haggo and Cohollo. The price was paid and paid and paid. Where is Khal Drogo? Show him to me, godswife,  _ maegi, _ bloodmage, whatever you are. Show me Khal Drogo. Show me what I bought with my son’s life.” 

Mirri Maz Duur bows her head. “As you command,  _ Khaleesi _ . Come, I will take you to him.” 

Jon helps Daenerys to her feet, but Jorah looks uncertain. “Time enough for this later, my princess.”

“I would see him now, Ser Jorah.” 

They help her from the tent, moving slowly as she finds her balance. She shields her eyes when they step outside, her frown deepening.

“The  _ khalasar _ is gone.”

“A  _ khal _ who cannot ride is no  _ khal _ ,” Jorah says gently. “The Dothraki follow only the strong. I’m sorry, my princess.”

They take her to Drogo, where he lies against a sun-warmed rock, a blanket around him just in case. Daenerys flings herself beside him, touching his face and murmuring to him, but he doesn’t respond. 

“Why is he out here alone?” she demands.

“He seems to like the warmth,” Jon says quietly.

Daenerys kisses Drogo, desperately, but still there is no sign of life from him. A weak anger taking hold, she turns to Mirri Maz Duur. “Your spells are costly.”

“He lives,” the other woman says calmly. “You asked for life. You paid for life.”

“This is not life. When will he be as he was?”

Mirri Maz Duur smiles. “When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east. When the seas go dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves. When your womb quickens again, and you bear a living child. Then he will return, and not before.” 

Jon reaches for his sword, but Daenerys orders everyone to leave her with the  _ maegi. _

“I don’t want to leave you alone with this sorceress,” Jorah protests.

She looks at him, aged beyond her years. “I have nothing more to fear from this woman.”

They leave Daenerys, but only for a moment; soon she’s calling for them to take away the  _ maegi _ , to bind her hand and foot. The  _ maegi _ only smiles.

.

Daenerys takes Khal Drogo to their tent that night. What transpires between them, no one can say, but in the morning, Drogo is really and truly dead.

Daenerys orders her  _ khalasar _ to find wood for burning. There is little to be found, but they take what they can find and build a pyre. Rakharo chooses the best horse in the herd, a little stallion that has seen better days, and Aggo fells the creature with one swift stroke. Such rituals are necessary for the funeral of a  _ khal _ . Once they’ve burned Drogo…

Jon decides to tell Daenerys who he is. Who he  _ really _ is. She will want to know. She  _ deserves _ to know.

_ Later, _ he decides.  _ After she has burned her husband. When we make our way west to Pentos, then I will tell her. And perhaps something good can come from all of this. _

When the pyre has been built, the men take Drogo and lay him upon it, the stallion below. Night has fallen by now. Daenerys changes into a flowing, beautiful gown unfit for the Dothraki Sea. 

“Her wedding dress,” Jorah murmurs to Jon, and his heart twists.

The final stage is to take the dragon eggs and lay them beside Drogo. 

“Drogo will have no use for dragon eggs in the night lands,” Jorah points out. “Sell them. You can return to the Free Cities and live as a wealthy woman for all your days.”

“They were not given to me to sell,” she says in an airy, dreamlike voice. 

“Princess…” 

“Why do you call me that?” she asks, still in that dreamlike voice. “My brother Viserys was your king, was he not?” 

“He was, my lady.” 

“Viserys is dead. I am his heir, the last blood of House Targaryen. Whatever was his is mine now.” 

Jon feels his heart swell. “My queen,” he names her, getting down on one knee. 

“My… queen,” Jorah echoes, also sinking to his knee. “My sword that was his is yours, Daenerys. And my heart as well, that never belonged to your brother. I am only a knight, and I have nothing to offer you but exile, but I beg you, hear me. Let Khal Drogo go. You shall not be alone. I promise you, no man shall take you to Vaes Dothrak unless you wish to go. You need not join the  _ dosh khaleen _ . Come east with me. Yi Ti, Qarth, the Jade Sea, Asshai by the Shadow. We will see all the wonders yet unseen, and drink what wines the gods see fit to serve us. Please,  _ Khaleesi _ . I know what you intend. Do not. Do not.” 

Jon’s stomach turns. What she intends? What does she intend, if not to burn her husband?

_ She means to burn herself. _

“I must,” Daenerys says calmly. “You do not understand.” 

“I understand that you loved him,” Jorah says, his voice thick. “I loved my lady wife once, yet I did not die with her. You are my queen, my sword is yours, but do not ask me to stand aside as you climb on Drogo’s pyre. I will not watch you burn.” 

“Is that what you fear?” Daenerys kisses him lightly on the forehead. “I am not such a child as that, sweet ser.”

“You do not mean to die with him? You swear it, my queen?”

“I swear it.” She turns to the  _ khalasar, _ the old and weak and frightened, and speaks to them in the strong voice of a queen. Some of the  _ khalasar _ leave, but most remain. Even still, Mirri Maz Duur laughs. 

“Ser Jorah,” Daenerys says in the Common Tongue, “bind this woman to the pyre.” When he hesitates, she reminds him that he swore to obey her. 

Together, he and Jon take the godswife to the pyre, where they bind her to the column. Daenerys takes a pot of oil and pours it over the  _ maegi _ ’s head. “I thank you, Mirri Maz Duur, for the lessons you have taught me.” 

“You will not hear me scream!” Mirri Maz Duur warns.

“I will.” Daenerys’s voice softens. “But it is not your screams I want. Only your life. I remember what you told me. Only death can pay for life.” She takes a torch and touches it to the wood circle. The fire catches quickly on the dry wood, sparks leaping from plank to plank until the whole pyre is consumed. Mirri Maz Duur begins to sing in a shrill, ululating voice, agonized as the flames touch her. 

Daenerys turns to look at Jorah, and then at Jon. 

“Daenerys,” he tries to say, seeing her intention in her eyes, but she only smiles and walks forward. “Daenerys!” he calls, afraid that she will go into the fire, unknowing that he is her nephew, that he is her kin, that together, they can right all the wrongs of Robert’s Rebellion. But she walks into the flames just the same, her head held high, and he watches in horror until she is deep within the flames and he can see nothing. 

.

The fire burns for hours. The  _ khalasar _ went to their knees long ago, but as the fire burned and the stars brightened and then darkened again, they sank to the ground and fell asleep. 

Jon, Jorah, Rakharo, Jhogo, and Aggo keep vigil the whole night. They wait for the flames to die, so they can look through the ashes and find their queen. 

_ She swore she did not mean to die with him, yet she walked into the flames all the same. Has grief maddened her so? Has the loss of Drogo driven her to take her own life?  _

It’s dawn by the time the fire smolders, leaving behind a whorl of smoke. Jon leads Jorah and the bloodriders forward, the crunch of their boots on the sand awaking the Dothraki. There is something in the heart of the fallen pyre, a small shape. Her bones, perhaps? Drogo’s? The dragon eggs?

The smoke clears, and Jon sees her. Daenerys. Her hair has been burnt away, but the crouched, naked figure could only belong to one person. 

To his surprise, she moves, lifting her head and staring up at him with piercing, purple eyes.

_ She lives, _ is his first realization.

His second is that she is not alone.

Two creatures suckle at her breasts. One is a deep green speckled with bronze. The other, a cream gold. And crawling over her shoulder…

Is a black and scarlet dragon. 

Trembling, Jon sinks to his knees. “My queen.”

Jorah follows. “My queen.”

Her bloodriders follow, laying their  _ arakhs _ at her feet. Slowly, Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen rises to her feet. Her  _ khalasar _ bow before her, prostrate with awe. The still morning air fills with the flapping of wings, and for the first time in in a hundred years, the music of dragons. 


	14. LYANNA V

The comet appears early one morning. 

“A sign from the Lord of Light,” Melisandre tells Lyanna. “The prince that was promised comes to Westeros.”

“Then why haven’t we heard about it?” Lyanna leans against the window, watching. “Wouldn’t someone have heard about Daenerys Targaryen taking forty thousand Dothraki across the Narrow Sea? Wouldn’t my son have written?”

It had been hard, to hear that Viserys was dead. But Daenerys carries a child in her belly, and more importantly, has forty thousand men and their horses at her back. They will be able to retake Westeros. Perhaps Viserys was never the prince that was promised. Perhaps it is her son. And when he is born, the dragon will have three heads again.

“It takes a long time to get from the Dothraki Sea to King’s Landing. Word will come in time.” Melisandre wraps her arms around her waist from behind, resting her chin on her shoulder. “In the nonce, you must betray nothing. Every day you are here is a day you can help Jon.”

_ Jon.  _ She thinks about him every day, wondering what he’s doing and how he feels. Has he told Daenerys who he is yet? Is Jorah Mormont truly looking after him?  _ Will I ever see him again? _

She wants to believe that the red comet is truly a sign from R’hllor. What else could it be? 

The door opens, and Lyanna slips out of Melisandre’s embrace as Fat Walda Frey enters. Lyanna had objected to using the nickname for a while, but it’s Walda who keeps using it.

“If I don’t say it to everyone’s faces, they’ll say it behind my back,” she’d explained cheerfully. 

She curtsies now. “My queen. There’s a girl here to see you.”

“A girl?” 

Walda clears her throat. “She says her name is Ros. She says you met the other day...she introduced you to someone named Mhaegen.”

_ The redhead from Littlefinger’s brothel. _

And here Lyanna had been hoping she could trust the other woman.

“Send her in,” she says reluctantly. 

Walda curtsies and disappears to let the other woman in. Lyanna briefly fills in Melisandre, cutting herself short when Ros enters.

She looks much the same as she had in the brothel, looking alluring in wisps of green silk, her hair piled high on her head in the southron fashion.  _ She wears it better than I do, _ Lyanna thinks wryly. The heavy braids had never sat well with her, and she’d always preferred to leave her hair down. Ros may be a whore, but she looks as regal as a queen, holding her head high even as she curtsies.

“Your Grace.”

“Ros.” Lyanna folds her hands in front of her. “What can I do for you?”

Ros mirrors her pose. “Your Grace, I’m from the Winter Town. I grew up in the shadow of Winterfell; my mother worked in the kitchens. When Sansa Stark was born, they rang the bells from sunup to sundown. I may be only a whore, but I’ve been loyal to House Stark since I was a child, and that loyalty has not faded here in the south.”

That gives Lyanna some pause. “I’m glad to hear it.”

Ros takes a step forward. “Your Grace, I come to you now as a girl from the Winter Town. Littlefinger is plotting against you.”

Lyanna glances at Melisandre, whose face is an impassive mask. She turns back to Ros. “What’s he plotting?”

“He knows that Jon Snow is your son.”

Lyanna pales, reaching for Melisandre. The other woman steadies her, holding her hand tight. 

Ros looks grave. “He’s keeping it secret for now, but if you cross him, he’ll take it to King Robert.”

Lyanna swallows. “What does he want from me? What will it take to keep this secret?”

“Truly, my queen? His own death. Littlefinger is an ambitious man, and he will stop at nothing until he’s on the Iron Throne.”

“The Iron Throne?” The absurdity of such a thought nearly makes Lyanna laugh. “He’ll never have it.”

“Yes, my queen, but he’ll never stop trying.”

Lyanna goes to the window, looking out at the comet. If Melisandre speaks true, then Jon will be here any day. But what if she doesn’t speak true?

_ We would have heard if he was coming by now. _ It could be weeks or months or even years yet. And all of their work will be for naught if Littlefinger reveals her secret. 

“What is it you want, Ros?”

The other woman sounds confused. “Your Grace?”

“What is it you want in life? I can’t imagine you’d want to be a whore forever.”

Ros is quiet for a moment. “Do you know, I’d never really thought about it. Most whores die before their time. The pox takes them, or the bloody flux, or a man. Sometimes they find a nice man and marry him and have his children. I’d never thought I’d live long enough to know what I wanted after.”

Lyanna turns to her. “How’d you like to be a lady-in-waiting?”

Ros looks perplexed. “Your Grace?”

Lyanna takes a deep, tremulous breath. “You’re one of Littlefinger’s girls. He clearly trusts you enough to tell you his plans. If...if I gave you wine...you could see that he drank it?”

Ros doesn’t need a moment to take her meaning. “I believe I could.”

Lyanna tugs at her hair, pacing up and down. “It could work,” she mutters to herself. They could kill Littlefinger, and then no one would know her secret. No one who’d use it to hurt her, that is. 

She turns back to Ros, who’s watching her curiously. “You’d have a place at court if you did this. And my undying gratitude...for sparing the life of my son.”

Ros’s lips quirk. “I’ve met your son, you know. He wouldn’t touch me,” she adds quickly, seeing the color drain from Lyanna’s face. “He was shy. He seemed a good lad.”

“In truth, I hardly know,” Lyanna says softly. “I parted with him when he was only a babe, and the handful of times I’ve seen him since…” Her heart aches. “I’ve let him down terribly.”

“You haven’t,” Ros says in surprise. 

“She’s right,” Melisandre echoes. “You have set your son on the path to greatness. Who would he be if he remained in Winterfell? Another woman’s son, doomed to live in his cousins’ shadows. Now you name him a Targaryen, the blood of the dragon.”

_ Yes, _ Lyanna thinks,  _ but he still lacks a mother. A good mother, in any case. _

“I can give Littlefinger the wine,” Ros assures her. “That should give your son enough time to gather an army and cross the Narrow Sea.”

“If it works,” Lyanna says, but she feels hopeful. Ros could put the poisoned wine in Littlefinger’s study, somewhere he’d drink it, and no one would know any better. He’s a devious man, one who’s made many enemies at court, and no one would bat an eye at his being poisoned. They might even blame his girls, thinking one of them resented him or was being offered better coin by one of his rivals.  _ And they’d be right. _ “You swear you will do this? And that you will tell no one?”

“I swear it by the old gods and new,” Ros says with a solemnity belying her cheerful face. 

Lyanna bows her head. “Come again in a sennight; I’ll have the wine for you.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

After she leaves, Melisandre turns her bright red eyes to Lyanna. “You trust this woman so easily?”

“She’s a Northern girl from the Winter Town. How can I not?” She turns her eyes to the red comet and prays.

_ Lord of Light, bring home my son. _


	15. JON VII

The comet appears the morning Daenerys emerges from the ashes.

Even now, even still, Jon can hardly believe what he saw. Though her silver hair was singed off and she was covered in soot from head to toe, Daenerys was unharmed. The Targaryens are the blood of the dragon, he knows, but none of them had been immune to fire. How many of them had been famously killed by the fire at Summerhall? Hadn’t Aerion Brightflame drank wildfire and died for it? 

_ Yet she was unharmed. _

Has he ever been burned before? He doesn’t think so. If he was, it was only the touch of a candle. Nothing memorable.  _ Am I as immune to flame as she? _

He doesn’t have time to test this theory. As soon as the comet appears, Daenerys decides that they must follow it.

So follow it they do.

In truth, east is the only direction they  _ can _ go. North lies the Dothraki Sea, where other, stronger  _ khalasars _ are sure to swallow them up whole. To the south lie the Lhazareen, and though they are a peaceful people, they have small reason to love Daenerys and her Dothraki. West is the direction Khal Pono and his  _ khalasar _ rode, and they dare not test his kindness. 

So east they go.

The Red Waste, Doreah calls it. A desert that stretches for miles and miles, one which few men survive. 

_ But we are not led by a man. _

Daenerys is fierce as a dragon herself as she leads them into the Red Waste. She wears the pelt of the white lion Drogo had killed, and though it is meant to protect her from the sun, it gives her a queenly look. Her dragons clamber all over her, their shrieks proud and defiant. 

Even now, he can’t believe that she did it. She took dragon eggs that had been turned to stone and made them live again. Who knows how long her dragons waited there, sleeping?

_ All this time, I thought it was Viserys or her son or even me who was the prince that was promised. But it was her. A young girl died on the Dothraki Sea, and reborn from the ashes is a queen who will lead us into the dawn.  _

_ . _

On the first night in the desert, while they gather around a campfire and share horsemeat and clotted mare’s milk, Jon feels, for the first time since coming here, that everything is going to be alright. He looks across the fire and sees Doreah watching him. With a boldness he didn’t know he possessed, he jerks his head to the side. She smiles and nods.

The Dothraki believe that all important moments in a man’s life happen under the stars. Under the stars of the Red Waste, on a threadbare blanket that’s seen better days, Jon Snow becomes a man. 

.

The rest of their march is not as sweet as those first few days. 

The sun is hot, the desert harsh and unforgiving. There is little food or water, and they must rely on their own dwindling supplies. The Dothraki that remained with Daenerys when Drogo fell were the old and weak and frightened, and it is the old and weak and frightened who fall as they march farther and farther east. 

Daenerys sends outriders ahead, but all they ever find are small, sulphurous pools of water that grow smaller and farther apart by the day. Soon there is no food and no water, and all they can do is march, because to give up now…

“We follow the comet,” Daenerys insists. “It will show us the way.”

No one argues, because there is no point. There is nowhere else for them to go. Even if they turned back now, they’d never make it to Lhazar or the Dothraki Sea. 

_ We can’t die, _ Jon tells himself, over and over.  _ We’ve come this far. We can’t die now. _

But more and more of the  _ khalasar _ dies, and even Doreah’s pretty hair grows brittle and her lips crack with dehydration. 

When a horse falls and they must eat its meat, Daenerys always takes a smaller portion in favor of her dragons. She feeds them from her own plate, charring the meat so that they can eat it; if left raw, they hiss and turn away. 

“What will you name them?” Jon asks when he helps her. He knows he probably shouldn’t have favorites, but the dark green and bronze has taken a shine to him, and he to him. The black and scarlet is protective of his mother, and the pale cream depends upon her, but the green reminds Jon of Ghost as a pup, shy but curious. 

“I would name them all for those the gods have taken. The green one shall be Rhaegal, for my valiant brother who died on the green banks of the Trident.”

_ Rhaegal. Named for my father. _ It touches Jon, and reminds him why he’s here.

“The cream-and-gold I call Viserion. Viserys was cruel and weak and frightened, yet he was my brother still. His dragon will do what he could not.” 

“And the black beast?” he asks.

“The black,” she says, “is Drogon.” 

Jon takes a deep breath. “Daenerys, there is something I must tell you. Something I dared not tell you until I thought it was safe.”

She looks at him curiously. “Speak, Jon Snow.”

He strokes Rhaegal. “I am not who I said I was, Your Grace.”

“You are not Jon Snow?”

“I am Jon Snow,” he allows. “But I am not the son of Jorah Mormont.” 

When he lifts his eyes, she’s watching him curiously. “Then who?”

He takes another deep breath, suddenly afraid. “I was raised as the bastard son of Ned Stark, brother to Lyanna Stark. But some months ago, Queen Lyanna rode to Winterfell and told me the truth...that I was her son by your brother Rhaegar. She feared for my life if Robert learned the truth, so my fa--so Ned Stark raised me as his own.” He looks at her again and can see the shock written plain on her face. “She sent me here to find you and bring you home.”

Daenerys rises, Viserion crying out as he scrabbles for purchase on her skin. If the puncture marks his little claws leave hurt, she does not show it. “For what purpose?”

He rises too, keeping Rhaegal in his arms. “Rhaegar spoke of the prince that was promised, who would lead us into battle against the darkness. He also spoke of the dragon having three heads. My mother believed that if I brought you and Viserys to Westeros, we would be the three heads of the dragon, and Viserys would be the prince that was promised to lead us into battle against the darkness. When I saw you eat the stallion’s heart and your son was named the stallion who mounts the world, I believed he was the prince that was promised. And then you walked into the fire and came out with three dragons, and I knew... _ you _ are the prince that was promised.”

Daenerys stares at him for a long moment. “You truly believe this?”

“I know how it sounds--”

“You think I’m the prince that was promised?” 

He bows his head. “I do.”

She licks her lips, cracked and dry as they are. “And you think it’s me who’s the...last hero reborn? Azor Ahai, you called him?”

“Azor Ahai tempered his blade in the heart of his wife, Nissa Nissa. It was a flaming sword that heralded the Dawn Age. Maybe Drogo was your Nissa Nissa, and the flaming sword, your dragons.”

She considers him for a long moment. “You’re really Rhaegar’s son?”

“I wish I could prove it to you. Truly, I do. I have my mother’s look, which kept me safe all my life. If I’d looked like my father…”

_ Robert would have had me killed. _

Daenerys hesitates...and then reaches for his free hand. “You swear to me that this is the truth?”

He takes her hand in his. “I swear it by the old gods and the new.”

Daenerys smiles. “Orys Baratheon was the bastard brother of our ancestor Aegon. He fought at the Targaryens’ side and helped them forge an empire. You will fight at my side, Jon Snow, and together, we will take what is ours with fire and blood. Jorah!” she calls, and the knight comes loping towards them, taking in the sight of aunt and nephew. “Only a knight anointed by the Seven can make another knight, is that true?”

“It is true,” Jorah agrees, looking at Jon warily.

“I charge you to knight my nephew.”

Jorah looks between them. “My queen…”

“It’s alright,” Jon tells him. “She knows.”

Jorah bows his head. “As you say. Kneel, Jon Snow.”

Jon obeys. He can feel others starting to look, but all that matters are Daenerys and Jorah. Daenerys scoops Rhaegal off of his shoulder, standing back and watching.

Jorah unsheathes his sword, taking a moment to remember the words. Slowly, he brings the sword down to Jon’s shoulder. “In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent. Arise, Jon Snow...a knight of the Seven Kingdoms.”

He rises with a smile on his face. Jorah and Daenerys are smiling back at him, and behind them, he can see Doreah looking at him proudly. 

“Jon Snow, I name you knight of my Queensguard,” Daenerys says. 

He bows his head. “I am honored, Your Grace.”

Her voice softens. “And more importantly, the last of my family.” She touches his hand again. “Come. We have much to discuss.”

.

As they cross the Red Waste, Jon tells Daenerys all about him--about Winterfell and the Starks, about finding the direwolves in the snow that day, about the mother he’d never known was his. She listens with rapt interest, much more eager to hear about him now that she knows they’re kin. 

“It was good you didn’t tell us who you were when you first came,” she admits. “Viserys would have felt threatened. He may have even tried to hurt you.”

“That was my mother’s fear, as well.”

She shakes her head. “All this time, she’s been playing the dutiful wife and queen...and in truth, she was waiting for the right moment.”

“All this time,” he agrees. 

“And you’ve been communicating with her all the while?”

“Ser Jorah was. She offered him a pardon if he helped me. He didn’t know who I was at first, but he figured it out soon enough.”

“You said that your mother was loyal to House Targaryen,” she remembers. 

“I did.”

She shakes her head. “I am grateful to her. When we retake the Seven Kingdoms, she will be rewarded.”

“Aye,” Jon says quietly, “but how will we ever get there?”

Daenerys hesitates. “I don’t know,” she admits. “I swore to my people that their enemies would die screaming; how can I make starvation scream?”

Her outriders return from scouting ahead. Jon waits for her to translate.

“They say there’s a city ahead. Empty.”

“Empty?”

She hesitates. “Ser Jorah, do you know what place this might be?”

He shakes his head. “No, my queen; I have never traveled this far east.”

“We will go,” she decides. Then, quieter, “It’s not as if we have anywhere else to go.”

.

The city is indeed empty; all pale white stone, the only sound it makes is the sigh of passing wind. Jon, Jorah, and the bloodriders ride ahead to investigate, but they find no sign of any living person. It’s been abandoned for some time; the walls are crumbling, some of the houses sunken in. 

Though the riders discover bones, they also discover figs and grapes and fruit trees without names. The people eat until they are full, and even then there is food left over. 

_ A godsend,  _ Jon thinks. They would not have survived without this strange dead city.  _ Dead, but it brings us life.  _

“The Dothraki have been here,” Daenerys declares, pointing to a plinth missing its god. 

“You think they came this far?”

“A long time ago. I wonder…”

_ What happened here? Where did these people go and why?  _

.

They make camp before what was once a palace. No longer; any glory it may once have had has been stripped away by Dothraki hands and the sands of time. Now, it is only a hollow shell.

While the others lay down their bedrolls and recline under the blissful shade, Jon douses himself in tepid well water, washing away weeks of sand and dirt and sweat. It feels good. It clears his head and makes him think once again. 

He doesn’t doubt that some horrible fate befell the people here. Perhaps the Dothraki enslaved all of them. Perhaps someone else did. Perhaps there was a plague, a rotten stink in the water or the soil, and the people left. It may be a safe haven now, but they can’t stay here. Whatever came for the city’s first inhabitants will come for them, too. 

Besides, they have a mission to complete. They must find an army and a fleet to carry it to Westeros. 

But in the meantime, they will rest and regain their strength. The dragons will grow, and when they are ready, Daenerys will take what is hers with fire and blood. 


	16. NED III

As soon as they pass through the gate, Ned thinks,  _ Gods, I wish I were back in Winterfell. _

He’s never liked King’s Landing, the handful of times he’s been. How could he? His father and brother died here, and Elia Martell and her babies were killed here not long after. 

_ Who will die this time? _

He shakes the thought from his head. That’s not fair. That was a long time ago, during the war, with a mad king sitting on the throne. There will be none of that this time. Robert is good and kind and just, and he would never kill anyone without cause. 

_ But Lyanna seeks to supplant him, and I’ve helped her...is that cause enough? _

The children exclaim in awe as they pass through the gate. They are met with similar awe; people point and shout at the direwolves, who must be kept in check by their children. Ned is the most fearful for Shaggydog, who is as wild as any direwolf from beyond the Wall, but he stays close to Rickon, protective of his boy. 

For his own part, Ghost pads along at Ned’s side, his red eyes looking up at Ned with excitement while his tongue lolls out of his mouth. Ned chuckles and reaches down to scratch the direwolf’s head. He’s taken it upon himself to care for Ghost while Jon is away, knowing the children will be much too preoccupied with their own wolves. He’s become rather fond of the wolf, even feeding him from the table and letting him hop up on his bed at night. 

“You’re spoiling him,” Catelyn keeps saying, immune to Ghost’s charms. 

“I am not.”

“You are, and you’re as bad as the children. No, Ghost, do  _ not _ lick my face!”

It’s a slow journey up Aegon’s Hill; too slow for Ned’s liking. His heart races, the sweat beading at his hands and neck.

“Ned,” Catelyn says softly, reaching over to squeeze his hand.

He forces a smile. “I’m alright. It’s...hot.”

She clearly doesn’t believe him, but he knows she won’t press him. She knows as well as any what happened here and why he’s so hesitant to come. 

Robert and Lyanna are waiting for them in the courtyard, accompanied by Cassie, Jon Arryn, Lysa, and little Robin. 

“It’s about time you come here!” Robert booms, and before Ned can sink into his customary bow, the other man sweeps him up in a bone-crushing hug. 

“Your Grace,” Ned says feebly, but Robert won’t have it.

“None of that, now! We’re family, Ned.”

“And you’re the king.”

“You’re no bloody fun, are you? We’ll change that yet. Lots of fun down here. Isn’t that right, Lyanna?”

“Lots and lots of fun,” she says with a wry smile, stepping forward to embrace her brother. “Gods, it’s good to see you again.”

“And you,” he murmurs back. 

While the children greet their cousins, Catelyn embraces her sister. 

“It’s so good to see you again, Lysa.”

“And you,” Lysa says. It occurs to Ned that even now, even years later, she still seems as prim as a maid. “You’re looking well.”

“As are you.” 

It’s a lie, but a kind one. Lysa was never as lovely as Cat, but she was pretty in her own way. The woman before Ned is painfully thin, her face severe as a septa’s. What happened to the girl Ned met at Riverrun all those years ago? 

_ It’s this place,  _ he thinks.  _ This place has aged her and made her unwell. _

For his own part, he’s happy to see Jon Arryn again. The man was like a father to him, raised him from the age of eight and defied Aerys to protect him. It’s good to see his old mentor. 

And he is old-- _ He’s eighty now, _ Ned realizes with shock. How had he gotten so old? And how is he still here, serving as Robert’s Hand? He ought to be in the Eyrie, living out his last few years in peace. 

“You’re looking well,” Jon says, his voice a little weaker than it used to be. 

“And you,” Ned lies. 

“I’m not,” Jon chuckles. “Getting older every day, and I feel it.”

“Nonsense; he’s still a young man,” Robert booms. “Ned, you remember my brother Stannis?”

Stannis stands near the back, but he comes forward when beckoned. He is as stern-faced as ever, his jaw clenched so hard that it’s a wonder he hasn’t cracked his teeth. 

“Lord Stannis.”

“Lord Stark.”

“And my youngest brother, Renly,” Robert continues, clapping a massive hand on the younger man.

Renly is the very picture of Robert when he was younger. The strong jaw and piercing blue eyes are Robert’s, and even the merriment on his lips reminds Ned of his friend. Perhaps it’s that similarity between them that led Robert to grant the Stormlands to Renly, and not to Stannis. 

_ By rights it should have gone to Stannis, him being the elder. Instead he got Dragonstone, a cavernous island with not half the lords and armies of the Stormlands. Stannis was never a pleasant man, but he deserved Storm’s End and all that came with it, especially after he defended it for so long. _

“Lord Renly,” Ned greets now. “You’re looking well.”

“And you look tired from the road,” Renly says bluntly. 

“Now, now, my love,” a silky voice says from beside him. “That’s no way to talk to Lord Stark.” Cersei Lannister comes forward, her green eyes glittering. “Well met, Lord Stark.”

“Lady Baratheon,” Ned says politely, bowing his head. He doesn’t know why, but he’s never quite liked Cersei. He could never put his finger on it. She has never been unkind to him...perhaps it is only that she is Lord Tywin’s child. Ned doesn’t think he’s ever met a Lannister that he really liked. He’d found Jaime Lannister sitting on the Iron Throne during the sack of King’s Landing, the dead king lying at his feet. Ned could never trust a man who’d kill his own king, especially a knight of the Kingsguard. And Cersei...well, she reminds him too much of her brother. 

It’s no secret that Tywin Lannister had wanted her to marry Robert. 

“Lyanna is spoiled goods,” Tywin had pointed out, but Robert would hear none of it.

“She’s the woman I love, and I fought a war to win her back. I’ll not cast her aside now.”

So Tywin had settled for the next-best thing--Robert’s only unwed brother. Stannis had married Selyse Florent just before the war, and Renly was still a child, but Tywin hadn’t minded. Renly was still the Lord of Storm’s End, and it was the greatest match Tywin could hope to make for his daughter. At Tywin’s insistence, they wed while he was still a boy, all the better to ensure that Robert did not change his mind and grant Renly to another woman when he was of age. There would be no consummation for some years, of course. And sure enough, as soon as Renly was of a siring age, Cersei became round with child. 

Both their children are standing at her side now; the girl, Myrcella, and the boy, Tommen, each as golden-haired and green-eyed as their mother. They bow and curtsy when introduced, and Ned can’t help noticing that Tommen keeps eyeing the wolves fearfully. 

_ Hardly a lion, this one. _

Robert sweeps them inside, showing Ned all that’s changed since he became king. The change of the most note is that the dragon skulls that once lined the throne room are gone, moved to the dungeons below.

“What will you put in their place? Stag’s heads?” Ned asks before he can help it.

Robert roars with laughter.

“I knew there was a sense of humor somewhere in there! Oh, you’re going to love it here, Ned, love it! And I’ve planned a treat for you, a tourney and a masked ball!”

Sansa and Jeyne Poole gasp with delight, ducking their heads to babble in excitement. 

“You didn’t have to do that on my account,” Ned protests, but Robert will hear none of it. 

“You never come south--this is cause for celebration! Besides, the womenfolk will love it--won’t you, Sansa?”

She blushes at being addressed by the king. “Yes, Your Grace,” she responds dutifully. 

“And I wager your young lads will be eager to enter the lists.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Ned starts, but Robb and Theon trade excited looks at the prospect. 

“Nonsense, Ned! Everyone loves a good tourney, and even a masked ball holds its charms for men like us.”

“You’ll have a good time,” Lyanna says firmly. 

But Ned isn’t so sure.

.

It isn’t until well past midnight that Ned gets the chance to speak to Lyanna in private. Robert had insisted on feasting the Northerners that night, and Ned had found himself drowning in wine at Robert’s insistence. They’d reminisced for the better part of the night, until Robert was so drunk he could barely walk, yet somehow he’d had the wherewithal to have a girl sent to his room.

_ He didn’t even try to hide it from me, _ Ned thinks in disappointment. Robert had always had an appetite for women, but he had hoped that age and his union to Lyanna would temper the flames of desire. At the very least, he could have hidden it from Ned, the brother of his own wife.  _ Does he think I will not be insulted? A king must answer to none, but he was my brother long before he was my king. _

When he knocks at Lyanna’s door, it is the red woman who answers. Her gaze unsettles him, but she bows her head and moves aside. “Lord Stark.”

“Lady Melisandre,” he says stiffly, entering the room.

Lyanna sits before a fire--curious indeed, given how warm it is here. Nevertheless, he goes to join her, waiting for the red woman to leave before he speaks. 

“Any word?”

“From Jon? He made it to Vaes Dothrak just in time to see Viserys killed by Khal Drogo.” Lyanna tears her gaze from the fire, looking at her brother. “That’s the last I heard from him. Not even Robert’s spies have heard anything.”

That shocks Ned. He knows as well as any how barbaric the Dothraki are, but to kill Viserys…

“Daenerys Targaryen is with child. Robert sent an assassin when he found out.” She shakes her head. “What sort of man did I marry, Ned, who would send a dagger in the night to kill an innocent girl and her child?”

“He fears the return of the Targaryens,” Ned says, but even he feels disgust at the thought of his friend sending an assassin to kill a young girl with child. “Do you think the assassin will be successful?”

“I don’t know. I wrote to Jorah Mormont to warn him, but he’s said nothing in response.” She hesitates. “The red comet...Melisandre thinks it heralds the coming of the prince that was promised.”

Again with that prophecy. “Lya...with Viserys dead, do you think…”

“Don’t, Ned.” She gets up, crossing to her window. “I wonder every single day if I’ve made the greatest mistake of my life. If I’ve lost my son a second time.”

He winces. Even Lyanna had agreed that Ned raising Jon would be best, but it doesn’t make him feel any less guilty. “He’s a strong lad, and smart. He won’t get himself killed.”

“No? Viserys was a Targaryen, a man who’d been evading assassins for years. If he couldn’t survive…”

_ Then why should Jon? _

“It’s different,” Ned insists, though he fears for Jon’s life as well. “Surely there must have been some reason for Khal Drogo killing Viserys.”

“I don’t know. Jorah never said anything.” She takes a deep breath. “Littlefinger knows.”

_ That _ upsets Ned. “Littlefinger? Truly?”

She looks at him with a somber expression. “He intercepted a message Jorah sent to me. He’s holding it over my head.” She glances at the doorway as if looking for a spy. “I’m afraid of him, Ned. If I upset him...he could destroy everything I’ve worked for.”

Ned has never liked Littlefinger, and with good reason; his brother had dueled Littlefinger at his own behest, when he’d challenged Brandon for Catelyn’s hand. He’d had his tail tucked firmly between his legs when Ned came to Riverrun to wed her in his brother’s place, but even so, Ned doesn’t trust the man as far as he can throw him. And now that he knows Lyanna’s secret…

He’s only been in the capital a few hours and already he’s weary of it. 

“What are you going to do?”

Lyanna is quiet for a long moment. “I have a plan. It’s only a matter of time.”

Ned starts to ask, but then decides he’s better off not knowing. 

“Let’s hope it works.”

“Aye, let’s hope.” She turns to Ned, forcing a smile. “So. How are you finding the capital after so many years?”

He groans, and Lyanna laughs. 

“Now you see why I come to Winterfell as often as I do.”

“It’s so... _ loud _ ,” he complains. “And hot. And it smells.”

“All true,” she agrees, rejoining him by the fire. “It has its charms, I suppose, but they’re utterly lost on me.” She reaches for a cup of wine, sipping thoughtfully. “Your children will like it, though, and you’re much more likely to find good matches for them here than at Winterfell. And once a match or two has been made and you’ve had all you can stomach, you can head back North and be free of this place once more.”

He gives her a sad look. “Would I could bring you with me.”

“Would that you could. But my place is here, with my husband and my child. One of them, anyway. The other I’ve quite left to fend for himself. What sort of mother am I?”

Ned hesitates before voicing his next question. “Have you ever considered...going  _ to _ Jon? He and Daenerys are little more than children; they would benefit from your guidance.”

Lyanna looks down. “Do you know...I have considered it? It feels so unfair, that I’ve asked my son to do this thing while I remain here. And yet...if I left, who would act as my spy? I have no friends here in King’s Landing; none that would tell me the goings-on of my husband’s small council, anyway. And Robert would know I meant to betray him if I left, and he’d be all the more prepared. Worst of all, though, I’d abandon another child, and I couldn’t do that. It was bad enough to give up Jon and send him away, but to abandon Cassie?”

“She’d be well looked after here,” Ned points out. “But I suppose you’re right.”

“It doesn’t matter, really. Daenerys has the army, it’s only a matter of bringing them here. They could be sailing for King’s Landing any day now.”

“They could be.”  _ But if Khal Drogo would kill his own goodbrother, why should he do what no Dothraki has done before and cross the sea for his foreign bride?  _


	17. CATELYN I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly writing credit should go to Emily judypoovey, because this fic would be nothing without her.

The last time Catelyn was in King’s Landing, she was still Catelyn Tully, and the man who sat the Iron Throne was the Mad King. Even then, even before the war, the capital had felt uneasy, a city on the brink of war. 

There is none of that now, only a feeling of peace. 

_ How long will that last, with Lyanna trying to put a Targaryen back on the throne? _

Catelyn has always liked her goodsister, but she fears that this plan is foolhardy. Lyanna has always been more impulsive than logical, given to emotion rather than reason. And this red woman...Catelyn mislikes the thought of a red priestess from across the world whispering in Lyanna’s ear and making her believe these things. 

Most of all, though, she mislikes the thought of Jon halfway around the world, trying to befriend his Targaryen kin among the Dothraki. 

She hadn’t liked Jon when they first met. The first few years of his life had been spent under Catelyn’s resentment. She’d known it was stupid to hate a child for the simple crime of being born, but how could she not hate him? Ned was  _ her _ husband, their brief time together resulted in a healthy son, and yet he’d gone to another woman and sired a bastard on her. 

And then Lyanna came to visit and everything changed. She must have seen the way Catelyn treated Jon, because she pulled the other woman aside and quietly explained everything to her. Rhaegar and the tower, Ned finding her on her birthing bed, the son who would undo all Robert had fought for if the truth ever came out. 

Catelyn had felt so ashamed after that. She’d hated a little boy whose only crime was being born, and if anyone knew his true mother, the king would have him killed. Even if that hadn’t been the case, even if he’d truly been Ned’s son, what gave her the right to mistreat him so? He’d only ever been kind and respectful to her--why should his father’s transgressions make him a pariah? 

After that, she’d sworn to treat Jon like one of her own children, and she thinks she’s done well in that. If Robb was given a gift, Jon received one also. When visiting lords came to Winterfell, Jon was allowed a seat at the high table. On the handful of occasions she’d caught someone mocking Jon’s base birth, she’d ripped into them so that they’d never make that mistake again. She’d planned to help Ned find a match for Jon, a girl from a nice family with land and men so that Jon would have a place in the world. 

And then his real mother had come along and everything had changed.

She supposes she can’t fault Lyanna for it; however fiercely Catelyn grew to love Jon, Lyanna was always going to be the woman who gave him birth. Jon has spent his entire life wondering about her, and now that she’s come back into his life…

Well, Catelyn can hardly blame him for doing as his real mother bids.

Still. She wishes he didn’t have to go so far away. Selfishly, she wishes that Lyanna had never told him the truth. That he had remained at Winterfell with them, blissful in his ignorance. 

_ Enough. I have five children of my body; no use dwelling on the one born from another woman. _

And speaking of her five children…

All of them are giving her a headache.

They’ve hardly been in the Red Keep three nights when Fat Tom rouses her and Ned from their sleep because Robb and Theon got into a fight with the guards; apparently, they’d been drinking (and, she suspects, wenching) and the guards, not recognizing the two, had refused to let them in in the early hours of the morning. 

Arya has been equally wild, running off this way and that with Cassie. Worst of all, Catelyn discovers that not only does Arya own a sword, but Ned has known the whole time and has been instructing Ser Rodrik to drill Arya in private. That had stung, and only eased a little when Ned tells her Jon had left the sword to Arya to remember him by. She’s unhappy with her youngest daughter training with Ser Aron Santagar, but at least, she thinks, it keeps her within the castle walls. When Ser Aron is too busy, the girls get into all sorts of mischief, sometimes even sneaking out of the keep and into the streets of Flea Bottom. 

Not even Sansa can distract her younger sister from leaving, for she and Jeyne Poole are awash with giddiness. Septa Mordane reports that they do nothing but talk during their lessons, and several times the septa has caught them ogling the men in the training yard. In truth, that’s nothing compared to the rest of Catelyn’s children.

Even Bran, her sweet boy, has taken to his usual climbing up everything that can be climbed. The guards have tried to catch him a time or two, but as in Winterfell, he’s too quick for them. It doesn’t help that Robert, far from scolding his new squire, only roars with laughter when he sees the boy at his usual antics. 

“Bran the Climber, we’ll call him!” he booms, and Bran is utterly thrilled by the nickname.

Worst of all, though, is Rickon, who can’t stand the Red Keep. She’d thought they would have found a solution by keeping Shaggydog in the old dragonpit, a nice big space for him to roam around, but boy and wolf can’t stand to be separated by even a short distance, and either Rickon finds his way to Shaggydog, or Shaggydog finds his way to Rickon. Catelyn gives up, allowing the wolf to stay in the Red Keep. It means that he and Rickon are often found terrorizing the rest of the castle, but it’s better than Shaggydog bounding around the city, angry and worried for his boy. 

And it isn’t just the children; even Lysa is giving Catelyn a headache. 

Marriage had changed Lysa, and Catelyn had always known it, but to actually see it like this…

The last time she’d seen Lysa, she’d only just had Robin, and he’d been a sickly babe. Lysa had been fraught with worry, and Catelyn could hardly blame her for it.

But Robin is a grown boy now, pale and squinty-eyed but healthy enough, and yet Lysa still treats him as if he were that sickly babe.

_ Perhaps he will always be that sickly babe to her. She spent so long worrying over his health, perhaps she does not know how else to treat him. _

She keeps the boy near her always, but nothing quite prepares Catelyn for the first time Lysa opens her dress and that boy--that boy old enough to ride his own horse and swing his own sword--latches onto her breast. 

She tells Ned about it later.

“Do you think Jon condones such behavior?”

Ned looks uneasy. “Jon has never had a living child before. He may not know better himself.”

“Surely you don’t believe that.”

Ned shakes his head. “He’s suffered much in his life. Perhaps he thinks it best to let Lysa do as she pleases, to keep the peace in their household.” He hesitates, and Catelyn somehow knows what he is about to ask. “Your sister...is she...well?”

“In truth, I know not,” Catelyn confesses. “She claims she is happy here, but the old Lysa was much more carefree. This Lysa...she is weighed down with worry. There’s something she’s not telling me, but I fear we have lost the openness we once had.”

“I fear this place is too much for her and Jon,” Ned admits. “Jon is eighty years old; he ought to be at home in the Eyrie, resting in his final years, not running the country while Robert drinks and wenches.”

_ Poor Lyanna. _ Catelyn had spent years stewing in her own anger because she thought Ned had been unfaithful once; how can Lyanna stand having a husband who so casually seeks out other women? Even if she doesn’t love Robert, not really, how can she bear the insult of it all?

_ She is made of stronger mettle than I. _

.

They’ve barely been in King’s Landing at all when Petyr finds her.

She has not seen or spoken to her father’s ward since her wedding, and even then, she’d kept her distance after the duel. It had embarrassed her to have him speak up like that. After all the years they’d spent together, growing up as brother and sister, he’d humiliated her by challenging her betrothed to a duel for her hand. She’d begged Brandon to spare him, and he had--but not before leaving him with a scar from neck to groin. 

Lysa had nursed him after that, and Catelyn had stayed away. Brandon would die not long after, and in the weeks that followed, his brother Eddard would wed her in his place. As soon as Petyr was healed, her father had sent him back to the Fingers, away from his daughters, and Catelyn had never seen him again.

Until now, reclining in her room as she takes a much-needed rest from minding her children. Ned is off with the boys, and he’d thought it best to leave the wolves behind, so Ghost lies across the room, watching her with those mournful eyes. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” she chides, knowing full well that if she pets him, he’ll just get that white fur all over her clothes. Again. 

The maid enters with a curtsy. “Pardon, my lady, but Lord Baelish wishes to speak to you.”

Catelyn sits up at that, a feeling of dread settling upon her. “You may send him in.”

Petyr enters a moment later, a smile on his face. “Cat!” he greets jovially, striding forward to kiss her cheek.

She pulls away, uncomfortable with the familiar gesture. “Petyr. Please, sit.” She gestures to the chair across from hers. Petyr takes it, and accepts her offer for wine. 

“It’s been a long time,” he comments as she pours.

“It has,” she agrees. “How have you been? You’ve done well for yourself.”

“That I have,” he acknowledges, taking the cup from her. His fingers brush hers, and the sensation makes her skin crawl.

In the corner, Ghost begins to growl.

The smile falls from Petyr’s face as he takes in the direwolf, who’s still lying on the ground but shows a glimpse of his teeth.

“Ghost, stop,” she says sternly. The direwolf lowers his head to his paws, but he watches Petyr with an unblinking gaze.

Unsettled, Petyr turns his attention back to Catelyn. “Your family’s pets are...exotic.”

“They are unusual, and a burden at times.” She shoots a withering look at Ghost, who is unperturbed. “But the direwolf is the sigil of House Stark, and my husband thought it fitting that his children each have their own direwolf.”

“His children...yet he’s taken one for himself.”

Catelyn mislikes the direction this is going. “Ghost belongs to Ned’s baseborn son, but he wanted to travel, and we thought it best he leave his wolf here.”

“Travel? To Essos?”

“I believe so,” she says lightly. 

“To meet with his aunt, no doubt.”

She looks up sharply, but Petyr only smiles.

“I know, Cat. I’m not as great a fool as the others here at court. Don’t worry,” he adds, seeing the concern on her face. He lays his hand over hers, until Ghost growls again. He withdraws his hand quickly, which seems to satisfy the wolf. “Protective of you, isn’t he?”

“Petyr,” she says gravely. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

He leans back in his chair, contemplating. “That’s...a rather difficult question, Cat.”

She feels her heart sink. “Petyr,  _ please. _ ”

“This is treason, Cat. Robert will find out eventually, and when he does, do you really want to be at your husband’s side, knowing he raised his sister’s son as his own?”

Something about that doesn’t sit right with Catelyn. “I was there too, Petyr. I learned the truth years ago.”

“You were loyal to your husband,” Petyr suggests. “And if Robert ever finds out the truth, there may be an opportunity for you to say as much. That your duty was to your husband, but you wanted no part in it. He may offer you a pardon.”

She stands up, incensed. “You would have me betray my own husband?”

Ghost stands up too, his hair standing on end as he growls at Petyr. He looks at the wolf in clear terror. “Cat, call him off.”

“No,” she says fiercely. “I have always loved you as a brother, Petyr, but you go too far.”

“Only as a brother?” he challenges, tearing his gaze away from Ghost. 

She could slap him. “How dare you?”

Ghost lunges forward, and Petyr hunkers down in his seat, whimpering like a babe.

“Ghost!” Catelyn snaps, and the wolf holds off, still on edge but awaiting her instruction. She wills her voice not to shake in anger. “Leave me.”

He does, stumbling out of the chamber. Ghost snaps at him as he leaves, inciting an unmanly squeal. When Petyr is gone, Ghost pads back to Catelyn and sits beside her.

Knowing she’ll regret it later, she reaches down to scratch him behind the ears. “Good boy.” 


	18. JON VIII

They spend weeks in the dead city, resting and regaining their strength. 

Early on, Daenerys sends her bloodriders south, southeast, and southwest to find what they can find. Rakharo came back after only a few days, reporting that due south there was nothing but desert until he reached the sea. Aggo came back only a few days later, reporting that in the southwest there were two more dead cities, even smaller than this one, but nothing of note. 

Jhogo is gone for days and days and days, and Jon fears that they will never see him again. 

In the meantime, Daenerys puts them all to work, pulling up the paving stones of the plaza and strengthening the gate. While most of the Dothraki remain in the plaza, some wander into the abandoned houses and make camp there.

“Do you mean to stay here?” Jon asks her bluntly one night. 

“Not forever, no,” she assures him. “But how can we go on until we have food and water and strength enough to continue? There is nothing south of us; if we go north or west, we will likely run into enemies again. Ser Jorah says that Yi Ti is to the east, but it will be an even longer journey there than the one we have made. We must be ready.”

That makes sense, but still, Jon hates to linger here. Every day they are here is a day they are not heading for Westeros. 

_ Not that we have any way of getting to Westeros.  _

The dragons are still small. He wonders if they will get any bigger. He prays they do, because without them, they will have a hard time conquering the Seven Kingdoms. 

“I know you are impatient here,” she continues, squeezing his hand. “I am, too. But we must be patient. Jhogo may yet return with good news.”

Jon shakes his head. “You truly think that? He’s been gone a long time, Daenerys.”

“He’s strong,” she says stubbornly. “He will return with news.”

Jon is not as optimistic as his aunt, but he doesn’t dare say anything. He knows how much her bloodriders mean to her, and what it means to give one up for dead. 

Instead, he turns his mind to more pleasant things.

Ever since Doreah has regained her strength, she has been pulling Jon into abandoned houses and dark crevices whenever the opportunity arises. He’s hardly one to complain; now that they have the luxury of time and privacy, he’s scarcely less eager to sneak off with her. She made him a man that night in the Red Waste, but she makes him a lover in the days they spend in the dead city. They explore every inch of each other’s bodies, learning what pleases the other. 

Jon doesn’t know what it all means. In Westeros, he would never touch a girl unless they were wed. Robb and Theon had tried to get him to lay with one of the whores in the Winter Town, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. 

_ Why is Doreah different?  _

He cannot marry Doreah. He cannot marry anyone. Daenerys made him a knight of her Queensguard, and that means swearing to hold no lands, take no wives, and father no children. He shouldn’t even be with Doreah...but where is the harm in it, truly? She knows better than to get with child, and Daenerys is hardly likely to punish him for seeking companionship out here in the middle of nowhere.

And it is companionship. They do more than make love (though they make a  _ lot _ of it). Doreah teaches him Dothraki so that he won’t have to constantly rely on others for translation. The guttural tongue is foreign and strange on his lips, and the Dothraki all laugh at his pronunciation, but the more patient among them help him learn. In turn, he helps them learn the Common Tongue, which many of them do not know. 

By the time one of the guards shouts for Daenerys, Jon understands enough Dothraki to know exactly what the other man is saying.

“Khaleesi, Jhogo has returned, and with him are three riders.”

Jon and Daenerys race to the wall, where Jhogo and three riders are indeed on horseback below. Well, Jhogo is on horseback; the three riders are on the backs of ugly, humped creatures bigger than any horse. 

“Blood of my blood,” Jhogo calls, “I have been to the great city Qarth, and returned with three who would look on you with their own eyes.” 

Daenerys looks down at the strangers. “Here I stand. Look, if that is your pleasure...but first tell me your names.” 

The first, a pale man with blue lips, replies in guttural Dothraki, “I am Pyat Pree, the great warlock.” 

The second, a bald man with jewels in his nose, answers in Valyrian, a tongue Jon does not know. 

The third, a woman in a lacquered wooden mask, says in the Common Tongue of the Seven Kingdoms, “I am Quaithe of the Shadow. We come seeking dragons.” 

“Seek no more,” Daenerys says. “You have found them.” 

Jhogo and the strangers enter the city, where her men take their ugly humped creatures and Daenerys invites them into her tent. The man with jewels in his nose starts to speak in Valyrian, but Daenerys loops her arm through Jon’s.

“I pray you, my lord, speak in the Common Tongue, or the Dothraki if you prefer. My nephew does not understand Valyrian.”

The man bows, switching to the Common Tongue. “Apologies, my queen. I did not know your nephew was present.”

“He is,” Daenerys says to all of them. “He is all the family I have left. Xaro Xhoan Daxos, Quaithe, Pyat Pree, I give you Ser Jon Snow, the baseborn son of my brother Rhaegar and a knight of my Queensguard.”

The three bow their heads to Jon, and he does the same to them. “An honor, my lords and lady.”

Daenerys offers them refreshment. The dates and figs grow plentifully here, and the strangers seem happy for the fresh fruit. When she brings out her dragons, they exclaim over the creatures, oohing and aahing as they climb freely over their mother. Jon keeps a hand close to his hilt, knowing that the dragons are valuable; if any of these strangers wished, they could take the dragons and make a fortune. 

When the excitement has died down and the dragons seem agitated, Daenerys puts them back in their cage and covers it with a sheet. 

“What are you doing out here, my queen, in the middle of nowhere?” Pyat Pree asks with a voice like silk. 

“A long story, and a sad one,” Daenerys admits. “My husband, Khal Drogo, died, and his  _ khalasar  _ abandoned me. I feared encountering another  _ khalasar _ , so I took my people and made east in the hopes we would find a city or port. So far, we have found only this strange city in the sand.”

“One of several cities that succumbed to conquerors years ago,” Quaithe remarks. 

Daenerys retakes her seat. “Jhogo found you in the great city of Qarth? Forgive me, but I have never heard of it.”

“It is the greatest city that ever was or ever will be,” Xaro Xhoan Daxos claims. “All civilization began in Qarth.”

Jon seriously doubts that. 

“You would do well in Qarth,” Pyat Pree adds. “The Mother of Dragons would be a wonder unlike any the Qartheen have ever seen.” 

Daenerys looks meaningfully at Jon. 

_ This could be our way to Westeros, _ he realizes. 

“Tell me, where is Qarth?”

“A few days southeast of here,” Quaithe replies. “Straddling the Summer Sea and the Jade Sea.”

_ The sea. Then they must have ships. _

“And I would be welcome there?” Daenerys asks tentatively.

“My queen, we cannot implore you enough to grace us with your presence. You will love it in Qarth--much more than here, in this dead city,” Xaro Xhoan Daxos assures her. 

Daenerys glances at Jon. “Will you excuse me a moment, my lords and lady? I must discuss this with my nephew.”

“Of course, my queen.”

Daenerys calls for her handmaids to set up a tent for their visitors and see to it that their every need is met. When they have left, she turns to Jon. 

“Well?”

“We would be fools not to go to Qarth,” he says at once. “They view you as a wonder; they can offer us ships and gold. And I could write my mother, to tell her what has happened.”

“I agree. I only wonder if we should tread with caution. There may be a trap waiting for us in Qarth.”

“There may be,” he agrees. “But you will have your  _ khalasar, _ and me. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

She smiles at him. “I know you won’t.” She takes his hand. “Never leave my side, Jon.”

“Never.”


	19. SANSA II

The morning of the tourney dawns bright and clear. Sansa wears one of her prettiest dresses, a pale pink with roses embroidered along the neckline. Jeyne chooses a gown of deep blue, threading blue ribbons through the braids in her hair. Arm in arm, they join the throng of courtiers and smallfolk headed to the field. Each of them has brought favors with them...though who they will give them to remains to be seen.

The Starks are given places of honor at the front of the galley, next to the dais where King Robert and Aunt Lyanna will be sitting with Cassie. It is only Sansa, Jeyne, Septa Mordane, Mother, Father, Arya, and Rickon; Robb and Theon are competing in the lists, and Bran must serve as Robert’s squire. 

The galley fills quickly, and when it is time for the festivities to start, King Robert, Aunt Lyanna, and Cassie enter to a great fanfare. The commons wave and cheer, and the royal family greets them with smiles. Taking his seat, Robert claps his meaty hands together and declares, “Let the games begin!”

Knights that Sansa has only heard of in songs take the field, as well as strange and handsome knights she’s never heard of before. The Seven knights of the Kingsguard also take the field, from golden Jaime Lannister to silver Barristan Selmy. She even sees the bronze of Yohn Royce, who supped at Winterfell three years ago. He rides with his sons, Andar and Robar, who are similarly armed in bronze breastplates engraved with ancient runes. Jason and Patrek Mallister take the field, as well as Horas and Hobber Redwyne. Six Freys of the Crossing join them, as well as Balon Swann and Lord Bryce Caron of the Marches. The most formidable of all are the Clegane brothers. Their frightening appearance, however, is lessened by Thoros of Myr, a bald-pated red priest whose robes have faded to pink. 

“Believe it or not, he scaled the walls of Pyke with a flaming sword in his hand,” Father tells them.

“Not,” says Jeyne, and the two girls burst into giggles.

She doesn’t giggle, though, when Beric Dondarrion comes out, his hair like red gold and his black shield slashed with lightning. In fact, she turns to Sansa and declares, “I am ready to marry him this instant.”

“Jeyne,” Septa Mordane scolds. 

Also in the lists are Jalabhar Xho, a dark-skinned prince exiled from the Summer Islands, and Renly Baratheon, the Lord of Storm’s End. Finally, there are the Northerners: Jory, Alyn, Harwyn, and of course, Robb.

Alyn and Harwin do not fare well, but Jory gets to the third round before Lothor Brune unseats him. Robb does even better; he will go on into the final rounds.

Ser Loras Tyrell of Highgarden comes riding out on a splendid white horse, his armor bedecked with silver roses and thorns. He gives all the maidens white roses, but to Sansa, he gives a red rose. 

“Sweet lady,” he tells her, “no victory is half as sweet as you.”

Sansa nearly faints for joy, and she and Jeyne squeal excitedly together after his horse trots off. 

Father looks grumpy.

When the sun sets and torches must be lit, Robert declares that they will finish the tourney on the morrow. Everyone moves to the riverside for a splendid feast. Still clutching her red rose, Sansa takes her seat at a table with all her family, including Robb and Theon. He sits beside Jeyne, whose back is stiff as a board. She has not forgiven him what he said on the road, and Sansa is just as happy that way. 

The food is delicious, but filling, and soon Sansa and Jeyne are in need of a walk. Between courses, they get up, arm in arm as they thread their way through the pavilion. Others are walking too, visiting at different tables, so no one looks twice at the two girls.

No one save a pale-haired youth with purple eyes. 

“Who is that?” Sansa asks Jeyne, trying not to stare back. 

Jeyne glances at him. “Purple eyes?”

“Yes.”

Jeyne casts her eyes about. “I think that’s Lord Beric’s squire.”

“Truly?”

Sansa glances back at him and sees that he is indeed sitting at the same table as Lord Beric. 

“Let’s talk to them,” Jeyne decides.

“ _ No _ ,” Sansa starts to say, but Jeyne is already dragging her over to the table. 

“Lord Beric,” she says, and the young lord looks up from his conversation with the red priest, Thoros. 

“Yes, my lady?”

“You fought splendidly today,” she gushes. 

His smile is almost patronizing. “Thank you, Lady…?”

“Jeyne Poole,” she fills in, offering her hand. Bemused, he plants a chaste kiss on it. “This is Sansa Stark of Winterfell.”

Lord Beric stands up and bows at that. “Lady Sansa; it is an honor to meet you.”

“And you, Lord Beric,” she greets, curtsying prettily. 

“This is my squire, Lord Edric Dayne of Starfall.”

Sansa curtsies to the squire. That explains the purple of his eyes; the Daynes almost always have purple eyes. “My lord Edric.”

“Lady Sansa,” he says, standing up to bow. 

“Will you join us?” Lord Beric asks.

“Oh,” she starts to say, but Jeyne is already sitting on the bench beside Beric. Sighing, Sansa takes the seat between Jeyne and Lord Edric. “Just for a little bit, I suppose.”

A serving boy brings two cups and fills them with summerwine. Lord Edric offers Sansa food from his plate, but she declines.

“I have eaten overmuch, I fear.”

He smiles at her. “It is a rich feast. You are new to King’s Landing, are you not, my lady?”

“I am.”

“How do you find it?”

“Wonderful,” she says honestly. “I’d never left the North before coming here. It’s so beautiful here. There’s so much color, so much...variety. Everything from the clothes to the food to the people are so different from the next.”

“I found it overwhelming when I first came,” he admits. “In truth, it still overwhelms me at times. I miss Starfall. The people and places are familiar there, and even as long as I’ve been here, I sometimes feel that this place is as strange as the day I first arrived.”

“That’s why I like it,” she explains. “It never feels the same.” She glances at Jeyne, who is flirting heavily with Lord Beric. He seems to be taking it in stride, but Sansa fears she’ll have to pry her friend away soon. 

Edric follows her eye line. In a low voice, he tells her, “I should warn you...Lord Beric is betrothed to my aunt Allyria.”

“Oh.” That’s some disappointment. Jeyne had liked him so well, and he’d be a good fit for her. “Is she here?”

“No, she remains at Starfall; she manages the estate in my absence.”

Sansa can hardly believe that a boy her age manages his own estate. “I see.”

“I saw you at the tourney today,” he says quite suddenly.

“Oh?” 

“Yes. Ser Loras gave you a red rose.” He seems embarrassed to have said such a thing, but Sansa cannot understand why.

“Yes. That was kind of him.” In truth, the rose is now twined in her hair, after Jeyne had helped her cut off the thorns and braid her auburn locks around it. 

He clears his throat. “My lady, if I--”

“There you are!”

Sansa stifles a groan, for standing in front of her is Septa Mordane. 

“Sansa, Jeyne, we were wondering where you got to.”

“Forgive me, septa.” Sansa rises, taking Jeyne with her. “Thank you for the wine, Lord Beric, Lord Edric.”

“Yes, thank you,” Jeyne adds, but Sansa is already pulling her back to their table. 

“Where did you go?” Mother asks.

“I found them sitting with Lord Dondarrion,” Septa Mordane reports.

“And Lord Edric Dayne of Starfall,” Sansa says for some reason. “He was most kind.”

Mother raises her eyebrows. “I see.”

“Dayne, you say?” Father asks, looking pained.

Sansa instantly feels stupid. Of course. Father killed Ser Arthur Dayne all those years ago, when he went to save Aunt Lyanna. He’d delivered Dawn to Ashara Dayne, and not long after, she’d thrown herself into the sea. Some say it was because she had loved Father. Still others claim that Jon was her son, and she’d killed herself because he’d taken her child from her. But Father would never do that. He’s too gentle and kind to take away someone’s baby.

_ But who, I wonder, was Jon’s mother, really? _

It’s a question that’s occurred to her a time or two. Mother always told her she wasn’t to ask, so she didn’t. But even still, she wonders why Jon lives with them, and why no one seems to know who his mother is.

_ Perhaps Lord Edric would know, _ she thinks.

“What did you think of Lord Beric?” Arya asks, turning a smirk to Jeyne. “Are you still planning to marry him?”

Theon nearly chokes on his bread. “ _ What _ ?”

“Jeyne wants to marry Lord Beric,” Arya tattles.

Theon laughs rudely. “As if he would ever.”

Jeyne’s brows knit together. “He was most charming when I spoke to him.”

Sansa doesn’t have the heart to tell her friend that he’s betrothed to another woman. 

“Charming in public, aye, but I hear in private, he and that red priest are  _ too _ fond of each other.”

“Theon,” Mother says sternly. “Enough of that. Such idle gossip is disgraceful.”

“What does that mean?” Rickon wants to know.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” Mother says before Theon can tell him. 

On the walk back to the castle, Jeyne links her arm with Sansa’s and walks a little ahead of the Starks. “I’m going to get him back,” she says in a low voice.

“Who?”

“Theon,” Jeyne says coldly. “He’s such an ass about my station for someone who’s still a captive.”

“He is,” Sansa says, relieved. Yes, let Jeyne flirt with Lord Beric and plot revenge on Theon. Better than her flirting with Theon...and worst of all, him flirting back. 

“So? How was Lord Edric?” Jeyne asks slyly.

Sansa, for some reason, finds herself blushing. “He was...most kind. A bit unusual, but I liked him.”

“He seemed to like you; he was staring at you all night.”

“All night? Truly?”

Jeyne nods happily. “Yes. I was watching. He’s taken with you, Sansa.”

She blushes again. “That’s...very kind of him.”

“Oh, stop being so modest! He’s a handsome young lord, and not just any lord, but the lord of Starfall! It’s a perfect match!”

“Match? I hardly know him!”

“Well, you have plenty of time to get to know him. The masked ball is the day after tomorrow, don’t forget. Many people fall in love at balls.”

Love seems such a strong word...but isn’t love strong? Doesn’t it strike you like lightning on a clear day? That’s what the songs would have her believe. 

She’s only just met Lord Edric Dayne...but she imagines that she could love him.

.

In the morning, the Starks head down to the tourney grounds a second time. Sansa wears Ser Loras’s rose in her hair again, but in truth, her eyes flit all over the tourney grounds until she sees Edric sitting with Lord Beric. He catches her eye and raises a tentative hand, an uncertain smile on his face. Sansa waves back, her smile bright and sure. Edric flushes, and her heart skips a beat.

Jaime Lannister loses in the first match of the day, his lion’s head helm so dented that he cannot take it off; instead, he is led to a blacksmith, who will find a way to remove the golden helm from his head. 

Next is Robb and Ser Gregor Clegane. Sansa cheers her brother louder than anyone, but in truth, her heart is in her throat. She had not known Robb would be fighting the Mountain. He has yet to lose, and none of his opponents walk away unharmed. Will Robb be alright? 

As Robb comes out to take his horse, Grey Wind trots at his side. Across the field, Ser Gregor’s stallion rears, unnerved at the sight of so great a wolf. Seeing this, Robb quickly has Theon take Grey Wind away, but the damage has been done; Ser Gregor’s horse is frightened, and when it comes time for the tilt, the stallion shies away, throwing off Gregor’s aim and sending Robb’s lance through the shoulder of his breastplate.

Gregor roars in fury, shouting for his sword. His squire brings it to him, and in horror, Sansa watches as he brings it down over his horse’s neck, cutting the head from the body. Everyone shouts and screams, and Jeyne is so horrified that she clutches Sansa’s arm with white fingers. 

But it doesn’t end there; Gregor takes his bloody greatsword and runs for Robb, who is no match for the Mountain. Father vaults over the galley, running for his son, but Sandor Clegane is faster; he swings his own sword at his brother, defending Robb. Everyone watches, terrified, as Gregor makes killing blow after killing blow, all of which just miss Sandor.

“ENOUGH!” Robert roars at last. “END THIS NOW!”

Sandor sinks to the ground, bowing, and Gregor’s blow just misses him. 

It’s as if he’s just now realized where he is; he looks around, seeing everyone staring at him. Breathing hard, he throws down his sword and storms off. Many of the knights reach for their swords, but Robert calls, “Let him go.”

Beside Sansa, Jeyne falls into a faint. She and Septa Mordane catch her, watching as Father embraces Robb and makes sure he’s unhurt. He seems to be unharmed, only a little shaken, and after a long moment, he walks out onto the field to stand before Sandor Clegane.

“I owe you my life,” he says so that everyone can hear him. “The day is yours.”

The crowd cheers as Robb raises Sandor’s hand. The Hound takes the champion’s purse, and when given the crown of roses, he offers it to Aunt Lyanna. It is customary for knights to name the queen the tourney’s queen of love and beauty, but Aunt Lyanna has an ill look on her face as she accepts the blue roses. 

_ Rhaegar named her the queen of love and beauty at the tourney at Harrenhal, and not long after, he stole her away. Does she still think of Rhaegar when champions name her the queen of love and beauty? _

Jeyne has been revived by the time the crowd moves to watch the archery contest, but she says she’s still feeling unwell. Septa Mordane escorts her back to the Red Keep while Sansa watches Theon compete with the other archers. He’s good, and he makes it far, but the day goes to a commoner named Anguy.

The melee goes on for three agonizing hours. Sansa decides to return to the Red Keep during it, wanting to check in on Jeyne before the feast. 

Jeyne is fine, embroidering a dress on her bed while Septa Mordane naps in a nearby chair.

“Who won the archery contest?” is the first question out of her lips.

“A commoner from the Dornish Marches.” Sansa can’t help but suspect that her friend simply doesn’t want to see Theon winning. 

“And the melee?”

“It’s still going on; it’s dreadfully boring.” She reaches over to squeeze Jeyne’s hand. “There’s something I should have told you yesterday.”

“What is it?”

Sansa hesitates. “Lord Beric...he is betrothed. To Allyria Dayne.”

To her surprise, Jeyne only laughs. “Oh, is that all?”

“You aren’t upset?”

Jeyne shakes her head. “No. Betrothed is not wed. Oh, it would be nicer if he was unwed, of course, but I can still flirt with him.” Her smile fades. “How’s Robb?”

“He’s fine. No harm came to him.”

“That’s good. When the Mountain came for him...I was so frightened.”

“So was I. I thought he might kill him.”

“Me too. But the Hound saved him...can you imagine? A Lannister bannerman saving the heir to Winterfell.”

“It was very strange,” Sansa agrees. “Ser Gregor is an anointed knight, but that was unchivalrous of him. The Hound...he is not a knight, yet he acted with more honor than his brother.”

“Anyone can act with more honor than Ser Gregor,” Jeyne scoffs. “The things he’s done…”

Septa Mordane wakes with a small snort. “Sansa! What are you doing here? Is the melee over?”

“I don’t know; I left early. I wanted to check on Jeyne.”

“I’m feeling much better now,” Jeyne says. “I can go to the feast tonight, can’t I, septa?” 

“If you’re sure you’re feeling better.” 

“I am,” Jeyne swears. 

Septa Mordane comes over to inspect the dress she’s been working on. “That’s very pretty.”

“Thank you; it’s for the masked ball tomorrow.”

“You will catch many eyes with that needlework,” Septa Mordane praises.

Jeyne smiles. “There’s only one set of eyes I mean to catch.” 


	20. JON IX

The Qartheen three call Qarth the greatest city that ever was and ever will be. As soon as they reign up, Jon sees why.

The city is protected by three walls; the first is red sandstone, thirty feet high and carved with almost every animal known to man. The second wall is grey granite, forty feet high and carved with scenes of war, from noble swordfights to rape and pillage. The third wall is fifty feet high and pure black marble, and carved on it are scenes of men and women twined in pleasure. Daenerys does not shy away, but Jon is not so bold; he keeps his eyes averted. 

All around them, men are banging gongs and blowing horns, their loud, brassy music reverberating in his very ribs. Eyes he thought to be mere ornamentation open all along the walls, and before them, naked children in golden sandals and colorful paint scatter flower petals. 

_ An entrance worthy of a queen, _ he notes with approval.  _ If this is how they treat Daenerys in Qarth, how will they treat her in King’s Landing?  _

But that’s a foolish thought.  _ She does not mean to conquer Qarth, and that is why they are so happy to see her. In King’s Landing, she will be Aegon reborn. _

The city is as great as the three promised. Everywhere are slim towers, shimmering fountains, and a sea of rich colors. And people, people of every shape and size and color imaginable. They line the streets and crowd the balconies, looking down at the Dragon Queen beneath robes of fur and silk. Most of the women, Jon is shamed to realize, wear gowns that bare one breast. He looks away, keeping his eyes down, but the sight of his own shabby, travel-worn clothing makes him cringe. How barbaric he must look to the Qartheen. All of them must look barbaric, dirty and dressed as they are.

_ We will need new clothes if the Qartheen are to take us seriously.  _

In the center of the city, statues three times the size of a normal man grace the road, and beyond that lies a market beneath a forest and garden woven into the latticework. 

“If you see here anything that you would desire, O most beautiful of women, you have only to speak and it is yours,” Xaro Xhoan Daxos calls from his camel. 

“Qarth itself is hers, she has no need of baubles,” Pyat Pree sings out from the other side. “It shall be as I promised, Khaleesi. Come with me to the House of the Undying, and you shall drink of truth and wisdom.” 

“Why should she need your Palace of Dust, when I can give her sunlight and sweet water and silks to sleep in?” Xaro retorts. “The Thirteen shall set a crown of black jade and fire opals upon her lovely head.” 

“The only palace I desire is the red castle at King’s Landing, my lord Pyat,” Daenerys says with the grace of a queen. “And if the great of Qarth would give me gifts, Xaro, let them give me ships and swords to win back what is rightfully mine.” 

Pyat Pree smiles. “It shall be as you command, Khaleesi.” He rides away.

“The young queen is wise beyond her years,” Xaro Xhoan Daxos murmurs. “There is a saying in Qarth. A warlock’s house is built of bones and lies.” 

“Then why do men lower their voices when they speak of the warlocks of Qarth? All across the east, their power and wisdom are revered.” 

“Once they were mighty,” Xaro agrees, “but now they are as ludicrous as those feeble old soldiers who boast of their prowess long after strength and skill have left them. They read their crumbling scrolls, drink shade-of-the-evening until their lips turn blue, and hint of dread powers, but they are hollow husks compared to those who went before. Pyat Pree’s gifts will turn to dust in your hands, I warn you.” He, too, rides away.

“The crow calls the raven black,” Jorah mutters. “You would do well to avoid both those men, Your Grace.” 

“Those men will help me to my crown,” Daenerys points out. “Xaro has vast wealth, and Pyat Pree— ” 

“—pretends to power,” Jorah says brusquely. “I would not linger here long, my queen. I mislike the very smell of this place.” 

Daenerys smiles. “Perhaps it’s the camels you’re smelling. The Qartheen themselves seem sweet enough to my nose.” 

“Sweet smells are sometimes used to cover foul ones.” 

“These people are wealthy beyond imagining,” Jon speaks up. “Their friendship could buy us a fleet and an army to take back the Seven Kingdoms.”

“It could,” Jorah agrees. “But at what price does their friendship come?”

“She is the Mother of Dragons--”

“Yes, and how long until the novelty wears off?” Jorah turns back to Daenerys. “Forgive me, my queen, but I know you are no stranger to the whims of benefactors who would take you in and turn you out once the last Targaryens lost their charm. Why should the Qartheen be any different?”

Daenerys tenses. “This is different. I walked into the fire and came out unharmed, I hatched  _ dragons _ from stone.”

“You did,” Jorah agrees. “But why should the Qartheen stir from their comfortable lives to send a woman they hardly know to rule a country on the other side of the world? You are an amusement to them, Your Grace, and few of them will turn a truly sympathetic ear to your plight.”

“ _ Our _ plight,” Daenerys says fiercely. 

He bows his head. “Just so.”

She urges her silver ahead.

“You’d better go,” Jorah says with a pained expression. “I don’t think she wants to talk to me.”

Jon urges his horse ahead, reining up beside his aunt. “He means well.”

“I know,” she admits. “And I know he speaks the truth. Only...I cannot bear to think of it. Viserys and I were toasted at every new house that took us in, we were treated like royalty...for a time. But we were nothing more than beggar children, and when our hosts saw the truth of it, they turned us out. It did not matter how angrily Viserys cursed them or how pitifully I begged, we were more of a burden than anything.”

“It will not be like that here,” Jon assures her. “You were a scared little girl before; now, you are a queen, the Mother of Dragons, the Unburnt. Xaro Xhoan Daxos is the first of many admirers.”

She gives her nephew a smile. “I do not think it is just me he admires.”

“What do you mean?”

She laughs. “Isn’t it obvious, Jon? He speaks sweetly to me, but his eyes are only for you.”

Jon nearly falls out of his saddle. “What?”

She laughs again. “He’s fond of you, Jon.”

Jon doesn’t know what to think. “Oh.”

“Perhaps I’ll have you seduce him,” she teases. 

He forces out an awkward laugh.

.

Xaro Xhoan Daxos has invited Daenerys and her  _ khalasar _ to stay in his palace--and it truly is a palace. It’s nearly as big as Winterfell, and an entire wing of the house shelters all of the Dothraki and their horses. They have their own gardens, pool, and maze, which Jon can think of no purpose for except extravagance. 

After Xaro, Pyat Pree, and Quaithe have left Daenerys with promises (and in Quaithe’s case, a thinly veiled warning), Daenerys commands Aggo to keep guard of their wing in the palace, send Rakharo to explore the city, and bids Jorah go to the docks to see if there is any news from Westeros. 

“Let me go with him,” Jon requests. “That I may send a letter to my mother.”

Daenerys nods. “Yes, go, and tell your mother we have come to Qarth. She will not have heard from you since we left Vaes Dothrak.”

Jorah waits while Jon writes as much as he can in as few words as possible--the less said, the better for both of them. This done, he and Jorah head down to the docks. It’s been six months since they had any word from Westeros, and in truth, Jon is afraid that something horrible has happened. What if someone discovered their plan? What if his mother is in danger? He’d never know, because he spent so long in the wilderness.

_ What if she tried to reach me and couldn’t? _

But when he and Jorah ask around, they find there is no word from Westeros; none of any note. There is a tourney in King’s Landing, but other than that, there is no news worth sharing. That relieves Jon. If something went aught with his mother, they would have heard. 

They find a captain from the Summer Isles who plans to sail west for Dorne; from there, he promises to pass on the letter. This done, Jon and Jorah return to the palace.

“Do you think she’ll have any luck with the Thirteen?” 

“In truth? No,” Jorah answers bluntly. “I think Xaro Xhoan Daxos could easily furnish her with the money she needs, but he will want something in return.”

“What?” Jon asks warily, afraid Jorah will echo Daenerys’s thoughts about Jon seducing the Qartheen man.

“Her dragons.”

That surprises Jon...but then, it shouldn’t. “She would never part with her dragons.”

“She wouldn’t,” Jorah agrees. “But the Qartheen have little understanding of sentiment. They think anyone can be bought. They know Daenerys is desperate to take back the Iron Throne, and Xaro believes he can part her from her dragons for the right price.”

“He can’t.”

“I know that. You know that. But Xaro doesn’t. And until he learns the truth, he will continue to play Daenerys like a fiddle.”

Jon shakes his head. “It’s wrong.”

“It is. But such is the way of the world.”

“How are we supposed to get back to Westeros, then?”

“I don’t know. She has lost everything, save those loyal to her, and we are few in number.” He sighs. “Would your mother could muster an army. But they will never rally behind a queen who has never even set foot on their shores, not until she proves herself to them.”

“She hatched dragons.”

“She hatched dragons, yes, but can she rule? Has she won any battles? Robert is a warrior, a proven leader. Daenerys is a woman who has never fought a battle in her life.”

“You ought to have more faith in her.”

“I have  _ every _ faith in her,” Jorah says, voice strained. “But you must look at it from the perspective of the Westerosi. You are biased because she is your aunt and because you know her. Tell me true, Jon, before you knew she was your kinswoman, would you have stood behind her?”

Jon lowers his eyes. He wouldn’t have. The realm has known only peace since Robert became king, save the Greyjoy rebellion. After the madness of the Targaryens, Robert had seemed a fit and just ruler. Jon had never spared a second thought for Daenerys or Viserys, not until Lyanna Stark told him the truth.

“We will get back to the Seven Kingdoms someday,” Jorah promises softly. “But in the meantime, we must be realistic. It will do us no good to dream like children. Only weeks ago, Daenerys had eighty thousand men and horses at her back, a husband who could rule, and a son in her belly. All of that is gone now.”

Jon feels suddenly weary. When will it end, this constant struggle? 

_ It will be worth it, _ he tries to tell himself.  _ When we have an army and a fleet and the dragons are grown. Then no one will deny us anything. _


	21. BRAN I

Bran watches the guests arrive from the roof of the eastern turret. He’s been following King Robert around all week, watching the older man prepare for this grand evening; and Bran, who has never much liked balls or things like that in the past, finds himself admittedly excited.

Lords and ladies from all over King’s Landing and nearby in the Crownlands alight from horses, litters, and carriages, all bedecked in their finery and wearing ornate masks. They are all beautiful, men and women alike, glowing with the expectation of the night ahead of them. 

Careful not to soil his velvet tunic, he climbs through the window of the turret and pulls his mask over his face. He had not known what disguise to take on, but then he’d leapt onto the roof of the rookery and upset the ravens and suddenly...he’d known. 

Mother had helped him make the mask, taking real raven’s feathers to adorn it. A black beak protrudes from his nose; he likes to move his head and watch the beak move with him. 

King Robert has given him the night off, to better enjoy himself during the festivities. Bran is glad of it; as much as he likes his uncle, he’ll like being surrounded by masked people more. 

At the top of the last landing, he sees all the attendees gathered in the hall. Beyond them, in the throne room, he can see men and women dancing, capes and dresses swirling with their elegant owners. Somewhere in there, he knows, is his family. Mother and Father will be dancing, not because Father likes it, but because it pleases Mother. Robb and Theon will be lurking in the back and making merry. Sansa and Jeyne Poole will be dancing--probably with Lord Edric and Lord Beric, of whom they seem so enthralled. Arya and Cassie will be making mischief somewhere, and Rickon will be outside complaining about the noise. He’s such a baby sometimes.

So entranced with the ball is he that he hardly notices the person standing by the rail until he collides with them, his beak getting tangled in their hair. 

“I’m sorry!” he apologizes at once, tugging free his beak. 

The girl he’s bumped into must be about his own age. Her hair is dark as midnight, and beneath her motley mask, her eyes are wide and curious. 

“That’s alright,” she says softly. 

“It’s the beak,” he says, pointing.

She smiles shyly. “It must make it hard to see.”

“Only a little.” He opens his mouth to introduce himself, but remembering this is a masked ball, he swallows the introduction. “What are you doing up here?”

“Oh...watching,” she says, still shy. 

“You aren’t dancing?”

“I don’t know who to dance with,” she admits. “I don’t know anybody here.”

“You aren’t supposed to know anybody here,” he points out. “It’s a masked ball.”

She bites her lip, and he feels instantly foolish for being so rude. “I could dance with you, if you like.”

She seems to grow shyer. “Only if you wanted to.”

“I do want to.” Surprisingly, it is the truth. Offering his hand, he leads her down the stairs and into the ballroom, where they join the dancing couples. She dances well and gracefully, and Bran is suddenly glad that he let Sansa teach him all the popular dances. 

Bran tells the girl all he dares--that he is a squire, that he comes from the North, that he has brothers and sisters and likes to climb. The more he speaks, the braver the girl seems to become. In time, she tells him about herself; that she does not live in King’s Landing but visits often, that she is an only child, that she likes to read and listen to her maester’s stories.

“So do I,” he says happily. “Him, and my Old Nan.”

“Old Nan?”

“She’s an old woman who’s been at W--at my house since my father was a child, and she was old even then. No one knows how old she is, really. My father’s ward swears the reason she tells so many stories about the Long Night and the Battle for Dawn is because she was there when it happened.”

The girl giggles. “My maester is nearly that old, too. They had to bring in another maester, a younger one, to help him.”

When they’re tired of dancing, they walk among the gardens. Or they try to, but they find the shrubbery overrun with amorous couples embracing in the dark. Red-faced, Bran offers to show the girl his favorite spot in the Red Keep. 

“Up here?” she asks doubtfully when he shows her the way. It’s a long way up, with few hand- or footholds, but it’s worth it to him. 

“Can you climb?” he asks, realizing that she may be too ladylike for such things. 

“I’ve never climbed before.”

“Not ever?” he asks incredulously.

She hangs her head. “My parents are always worried I’ll get hurt.”

“I won’t let you get hurt,” he promises fiercely. “You’ll be safe, I promise. Just take my hand.”

The girl gives him a trusting hand, and slowly, he helps her up the latticework of the wall. She has to stop once or twice to tuck her skirt up around her legs, but he doesn’t mind; he’s excited for her to see the view. 

Once on the ledge, they scurry across the slanted roof, then up a steeper incline. He can hear her pant behind him, but she never utters a word of complaint, only clutches his hand with hers. 

“I found this place last week,” he tells her, pulling her up and onto the ledge. 

The girl steps fully onto the ledge, and then her breath catches in her throat. Even now, even after seeing it every night, Bran understands why. 

All of King’s Landing lies before them, houses and taverns lit by candles and hearth fires. They twinkle almost like stars as shadows pass before them, a city alive with people. To the west, the lights stop suddenly at the city gates, with only small, dull clusters of light beyond them. To the east is an inky black abyss, Blackwater Bay eerily still and silent. 

“This must be what the Targaryens saw atop their dragons,” he says as they sit. He starts to take off his mask, and then remembers that they’re supposed to be masked. At least, he thinks so. They’re not really at the ball anymore, are they?

“I love the stories about the Targaryens,” she says, breathless from the climb and the view. Maybe the thought of the Targaryens and their dragons makes her breathless, too. “I have a book all about Aegon and his sisters...and their dragons. I’d like to see a dragon.”

“Me too,” he admits. “But there aren’t any.”

“No,” she agrees, and her voice turns sad. “Not anymore.”

They sit in silence for a long moment, looking out at the city. Bran likes it up here. He’s always preferred being up to down. He can see everything from up here, the whole world. It’s almost like flying. 

Slowly, he stands up.

“What are you doing?” the girl asks, nervous.

“Flying.” He opens his arms, letting the wind rush past him. For a moment, he can almost pretend he’s really flying, wind passing beneath his wings as he soars above the city. 

“You’ll fall,” the girl says, and he opens his eyes. 

“I won’t. I never fall.” But he sits down because he can see that it makes her nervous.

“Do your parents know you come up here?”

“They know I like to climb. I do it all the time at home. Mother tells me not to, but Father tells me to do it where she can’t see.”

“Are they here? In King’s Landing?”

“Yes; they’re at the ball now, with my brothers and sisters.” He looks at her. “Are yours here?”

“Yes. They hate it here at court, though. Usually Father has his business here while Mother and I stay at home. They don’t like to bring me here.” She ducks her head. “I don’t always like to come.”

“Why not?” he asks, surprised. “You don’t like it here?”

“I do like it here; it’s a wonderful place. Much better than home. But people don’t...they treat me differently.”

“Why?”

She shifts uncomfortably. “They just do.”

“I don’t understand.”

She stands abruptly, wobbling a little. “I’d like to go back now, please.”

Disappointed, Bran stands also. He helps her down the steep incline, half skidding, half sliding, and hops through a window to a corridor, where he eases her over the sill and into the corridor. It’s bright in here, and he can see that her hair is mussed from climbing up to the roof. He reaches to smooth it down, but she draws back in fear.

“I’m sorry.” He drops his hand, feeling embarrassed. He should know better than to touch a lady without asking. “Are you afraid of me?”

“No,” she says softly. “But I am afraid that you won’t like me if you...if you saw me.”

He knits his brow. Is she ugly? Is that what she fears? He knows plenty of ugly people, and it doesn’t make him think less of them. “I would like you.”

But she shakes her head. “You wouldn’t.”

“Why don’t I show you my face?” he suggests. “I have a horrible face, you’ll feel so much better if you see mine first.”

She hesitates. “Well...if you want to.”

“I do.” He takes off his mask, but not before contorting his face as much as he possibly can. Eyes crossed, jaw crooked, tongue hanging out of his mouth, he unmasks. “See?” he asks around his lolling tongue.

She giggles. “Show me your real face.”

“What? This is my real face.” But his eyes are starting to bother him, so he uncrosses them and straightens his jaw. “I’m Brandon Stark of Winterfell, but everyone calls me Bran, like Bran the Builder. My father is Lord Eddard, and Queen Lyanna is my aunt.” 

“Truly?” The girl seems surprised. “King Robert is my uncle.”

“Your uncle?” Bran takes her in--black hair, blue eyes, a niece of Robert Baratheon… “You’re Lord Stannis’s daughter, aren’t you? Shireen.”

“That is me.” Yet still she does not take off the mask. “You will have heard...about my face…”

“I’m sorry, no.” What about her face? 

She hesitates. “You truly don’t know?”

“Know  _ what _ ?”

“I...I had greyscale when I was very small. It...left its mark.”

He considers her. “Will you show me?”

Her fingers brush the underside of her mask. “You will think it ugly.”

“No, I won’t. Show me.”

She hesitates...and then slowly unties the ribbons behind her head. She catches the mask as it slips down her face, and slowly, shyly, she unveils.

There is a grey spot on her cheek, true enough. It looks as hard as stone, but Bran doesn’t think it makes her ugly. She’s quite pretty, really, even with the grey mark. If anything, he thinks it makes her look strong and fierce.

“Well?” she mumbles softly.

“I don’t think it’s ugly,” he assures her. “I think it makes you look fierce.”

She raises her eyes to his, still shy. “Really?”

“Yes. Few survive greyscale, but you did when you were only a baby. You have the battle scar to prove it. That doesn’t make you ugly, it makes you strong.”

She smiles, and now Bran thinks she’s truly beautiful. “You’re very kind, Bran.”

“It isn’t kindness to tell the truth.” He offers her his arm. “Shall we go back to the ball, my lady?”

She slips her hand through the crook of his elbow. “Yes, my lord.”

Arm in arm, the two children return to the ball, and not even their masks can hide the smiles on their faces. 


	22. THEON I

Theon likes to think he’s above such things, but it has to be said that King Robert knows how to throw a ball. 

While Theon and Robb have opted for plain black masks over black velvet doublets, the other guests have gone all out. They see masks carved in elaborate faces, from elegant animals to contorted monsters. Some of the attendees even wear a full costume, not content to let their disguise end at their face. 

For his part, Theon enjoys watching the proceedings, the lords and ladies dancing gracefully while the servants move with equal grace, removing empty cups and flagons and returning with fresh flagons and clean cups. At the other end of the room, he can see King Robert dancing with Lady Catelyn, who bears his stumbling well. Lord Eddard dances with a slight girl who can only be Arya, and not far from them is Sansa with her pale haired squire. The Lord of Starfall, in truth, but he’s still a squire. 

Rickon interrupts their viewing, tugging at his mask.

“Leave it,” Robb says, but Rickon throws down the thing.

“I don’t like wearing it, and I don’t like this ball! I want to go to bed!”

“Alright then.” Robb scoops up the smaller lad. “I’ll be back,” he says to Theon.

“Take your time.” Theon doesn’t mind; he knows how irritable Rickon can get, and he’s enjoying himself anyway. There will be time for antics later, when everyone will be deep in their cups. Perhaps he and Robb will go out on the town again, and perhaps this time, the guards will let them through.

_ If we don’t drink too much to remember ourselves. _

He’s watching Arya make an ungraceful twirl when a black-haired woman behind a pale blue mask stops in front of him.

“Forgive me,” she murmurs in an accent he does not know, “but you competed in the archery contest yesterday, did you not?”

He cannot help but swell with pride. He’s a skilled archer and he knows it...and clearly other people know it, too. “Aye, I did.”

“You did very well.” What is her accent? Braavosi? Lorathi? In truth he knows little of the Free Cities, but he feels sure she’s from one of them. Certainly not from anywhere here, in Westeros. 

“Thank you, Lady…?”

“Varra,” she says, still in that soft murmur.

“Lady Varra. I am Theon Greyjoy.” He kisses her hand, making sure to smile roguishly up at her as he does. “The honor is all mine.”

She bows her pretty head, the gold of her net catching the light. “In my country, women are not allowed at archery.”

“It is the same in this country, but many women do. My guardian’s daughter has greater skill with the bow than most men I know.”

Varra looks up at him shyly. “Perhaps you could teach me.”

Oh, he likes the sound of that. He can just picture it now, showing her how to nock the arrow, his arms around her willowy frame while he presses his cock into her pert little bottom. Yes, he likes the sound of that very much. “I could. I could do it right now.”

“Now?” she asks, and he doesn’t miss the way the breath catches in the slim column of her throat. 

“The practice yard will be empty,” he reminds her. “No one to watch us.”

She blushes, but rather than refuse him, she bites her lip and then says, “I would like that.”

He cannot believe his luck. He grins, offering her his arm. “This way, my lady.”

.

The practice yard is indeed empty, everyone attending the ball or up to some other revelry. Theon lights torches so that they can see and brings out one of the practice bows. Varra waits shyly where he’d left her, smoothing her dress. With any luck, he’ll get under that dress tonight. 

_ She came out here alone with me, how could she not want this? _

But she is highborn, and from another country, so he must play the gallant until he can be sure of her intentions.

“The biggest thing you need to remember,” he tells her as he fits the bow into her hands, “is that you don’t need to aim the arrow.”

“I don’t?”

“No. People think you do. But look with your eye. The arrow will follow your eye.” 

“That seems counterintuitive,” she murmurs.

“It does,” he admits. “But it’s true.” He hesitates. He’s taken off his own mask to see better, but she still wears hers. “You would see better if you would take off the mask…”

She darts a look at him. “Not yet.” She smiles. “I’m shy, Lord Theon.”

So that’s the way of it. Well, he can play at that game.

“Very well, my lady.” He shows her how to stand, letting his hands linger as he straightens her back and shoulders. He can feel her heart pounding, and that pleases him. Standing behind her, he brings his arms around hers and guides the arrow into the nock. 

“Watch the bullseye,” he murmurs against her ear. “And let the arrow fly.”

In truth, he’s the one who lets the arrow fly, the arrowhead landing neatly in the bullseye.

“Oh,” she breathes. 

“You’re a natural,” he praises. 

“You did that yourself, not me,” she reminds him.

“Aye,” he agrees with a sheepish grin. “But let me teach you and you’ll be the best archer across the Narrow Sea.”

She laughs, a musical sound that warms him. “I think the Dothraki would have a thing or two to say about that.”

“The Dothraki? Pah. What do they know?” he jests. He nocks another arrow, pressing against her body as he does. The smallest of shivers runs down her spine, and he cannot help but let his hand brush her breast. She wants him, and he’s going to have her.

He’s nocking the third arrow when she presses deliberately against him. He makes a show of aiming while he slowly grinds against her, making himself harder. To his delight, her hand drifts down to cup him there. 

“Do I please you so much, Lord Theon?”

“Aye.” He buries his face in the crook of her neck, kissing the smooth flesh there. “You are lovely to behold.”

“You have not even seen my face yet.”

“I do not need to.”

“Are you sure?” She turns in his arms, her eyes dancing. “You do not want to see the face of the girl you are about to bed?”

His cock twitches. He tosses the bow and arrow to the side, wrapping his arms about her waist. “You are no mere girl, Lady Varra.”

“No?” Her voice changes, and suddenly she is no longer Lady Varra. “And here I thought I was just a steward’s daughter.”

He knows that voice. Horrified, he tears the mask from her face, his stomach dropping as he unveils Jeyne Poole’s laughing face. He pushes her back roughly, and that makes her laugh all the harder. 

“What are you playing at?” he demands.

“Just a game of pretend.” She smirks, and he grows hot with shame. 

“I ought to slap you,” he retorts, even though he would never. He only means to scare her, but Jeyne is not scared.

“Do it,” she says, unflinching. “And I’ll tell everyone that the  _ awful _ Greyjoy captive  _ savagely beat me _ after trying to force himself on me.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would, and everyone would believe me, a steward’s daughter, over you, a traitor’s son.” She bends down to retrieve her mask, brushing it off. “Thank you for the archery lesson,  _ Lord _ Theon. It was most instructive.” Turning, she flounces out of the practice yard, leaving him half-hard and full of shame. 


	23. SANSA III

The ball is everything she dreamt and more.

Lords and ladies in the most beautiful clothes she’s ever seen dance across the ballroom, capes and dresses swirling around them like colorful clouds. During the slower sets, the men and women glide across the floor, their movements smooth as water. During the faster sets, the men spin the women about and swing them up in the air. 

Jeyne was taking too long to get ready, so Sansa had gone down herself. Her dress is a deep purple, and twined in her hair are flowers enough to make anyone realize that even beneath the gilded mask, she is meant to be Jonquil. 

She is not the only one to have emulated her favorite song; there are couples here and there with flowers in hair and motley masks and half-capes. They all look lovely, and Sansa longs to be out there with them. 

_ But who will be my Florian? _

Most of these couples, she’s sure, planned their costumes and arrived together. There are a few Jonquils without Florians, but even they are partnered up with other men. 

“It won’t take you long,” Cassie assures her beneath a mask of midnight blue silk and black lace. “You’re so lovely.”

“As are you,” Sansa tells her cousin. 

“Oh, I’m not worried. Everyone’s always trying to be nice to me because I’m the princess. If I want a partner, I’ll just let slip that my father’s the king.”

Sansa can’t help but laugh. She loves her cousin, and she’s glad that she has her, since Jeyne is still nowhere to be found. 

To her surprise and relief, two men do ask her to dance. She’s relieved to find that her dancing instructors in the North taught her well, because she keeps up with them as if it were nothing. They tell her she’s beautiful and she glows under the praise. It all feels like a dream, and not even Arya’s clumsiness or Robb smirking at her will shatter the perfection of the evening.

She doesn’t think it could get any better when she’s talking to Cassie and the other girl suddenly smiles. 

“What is it?”

“Turn around,” Cassie says quietly.

Sansa does, and sucks in a breath when she sees a Florian costume, a cape of motley and a mask to match. Behind the mask she sees pale hair and purple eyes.

Edric stands nervously as she approaches him, smiling so wide she thinks her face might split.

“My lady,” he says, sinking into a deep bow.

“My lord.” She curtsies, unable to take her eyes off of him. “How did you know…?”

“Your friend, Lady Jeyne...she told me it would please you.”

Sansa’s heart soars. She’ll have to thank Jeyne later. “It pleases me greatly.”

He seems relieved at that. “Oh, good. I wasn’t sure if...if you didn’t want me to dress to match, and perhaps I...presumed too much…”

She shakes her head. “Never.”

He swallows. “Would you like to dance, Lady Sansa?”

“I would love to.”

He offers his hand, and Sansa takes it, letting him whirl her off to join the other couples. They dance set after set, slow and fast, her smiling and him looking at her in awe. Does he love her? Does she love him? She feels so light that she thinks she must.

_ He dressed as Florian to match my Jonquil. Even if he does not love me yet, he cares for me in some measure.  _

They dance until her feet hurt, and even then, she could dance longer, but the hour grows late and Mother beckons her from across the ballroom. 

“I have to go,” she says, full of regret.

Edric glances over at her parents. “Yes. I...I hope to see you again soon, Lady Sansa.”

Her heart thrills at his words. “I hope for the same, Lord Edric.”

He bows, kissing her hand. “Good night, Lady Sansa.”

“Good night, my lord.” She walks to her parents in a trance, feeling lighter than air as they head back to their rooms.

Later, when they’re getting ready for bed, she tells Jeyne everything. Jeyne listens with a smile on her face.

“Do you think you’ll marry him?” Jeyne asks as they climb in under the sheets.

“I hope so,” Sansa admits. “I care for him, and I know he cares for me. But is it enough to marry?”

“You are his equal in every way; the eldest daughter of the Warden of the North, and he, the lord of Starfall. Why shouldn’t you be his lady?” Jeyne, who has just lain down, suddenly sits up. “Sansa, that’s  _ it _ !”

“What is?”

Jeyne looks ecstatic. “The red woman said that our fortunes lie  _ where the stars fall and grow dark. _ Edric is the lord of  _ Starfall. _ Your fortune lies there, as its lady!”

Sansa can’t  _ believe _ that’s never occurred to her before. She sits up too, throwing her arms around Jeyne in excitement. “Of  _ course. _ How did we never think of that?!”

Jeyne beams as they pull apart. “Sansa, you’re going to marry Edric...and I’m going to come with you.”

She’s going to marry Edric and become the Lady of Starfall. And Jeyne is going to be there, her truest friend, and everything is going to be perfect.

_ Life is even better than a song. _


	24. JON X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emily told me to have Jon and Dany trying on clothes and having fun. This is sort of that. Also, co-writing credit officially needs to go to Emily, without whom this fic would SUCK.

Though they are in the greatest city that ever was or will ever be, Daenerys has no time to waste. She hounds Xaro Xhoan Daxos over dinner about meeting with the Pureborn, the descendants of Qarth’s kings and queens who control the Civic Guard...as well as the city’s fleets. 

“There are things you must do first, traditions,” Xaro finally relents.

“What things? What traditions? Tell me, that I may do them.”

He sighs. “You must offer a sacrifice at the Temple of Memory. Then, you must bribe the Keeper of the Long List. Then, you must send a persimmon to the Opener of the Door. You will know it is time when you receive blue silk slippers.”

“Slippers?”

“Slippers, my queen; these will summon you to the Hall of a Thousand Thrones.”

She looks ready to argue...and then deflates. “I will do what I must.”

Xaro takes a sip of wine. “There is one other thing...not tradition, but something you should do all the same.”

“Tell me, Xaro.”

“You must do away with your Dothraki...garments,” he says delicately. “The Pureborn will never listen to you if you look like a horselord. You must take on traditional Qartheen raiment, to look civilized.”

“Of course,” Daenerys says. “Where might I find Qartheen clothes?”

“I will send for the finest clothiers,” Xaro promises. 

Daenerys glances at Jon. “Make sure there is cloth enough for Jon Snow; as my nephew, it is important he look the part.”

Xaro’s eyes linger on Jon. “It would be my greatest pleasure to clothe Jon Snow.”

_ And to disrobe me, too, _ Jon thinks. Xaro’s looks and touches have become more and more frequent, and though he has never said or done anything outright, even Jon knows what such attention means. Xaro claims to be in love with Daenerys, but from the number of scantily clad young men in his service, Jon is willing to bet the only thing he truly loves about Daenerys is the opportunity to become a king. 

“Clothes for your handmaids, too,” Xaro adds, turning his attention back to Daenerys. “They must look the part.”

Beside Jon, Doreah visibly thrills at the thought of new clothes.

_ Poor girl. She wore silk and samite as a bed slave. Now she serves the Queen of Westeros and has been wearing the same roughspun rags and coarse leather for over a year. _ He’ll be happy to see her in new clothes...but, truth be told, happier to see her out of them altogether.

.

True to his word, Xaro sends for the finest clothiers in Qarth to garb Daenerys and Jon. To Jon’s relief, he leaves them to be measured and fitted in privacy.

Jon has never worn such fine raiment before, and he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Lady Catelyn had made most of his clothes, and her measurements had been quick and cursory. This seamstress measures everything and holds up so many fabrics that it makes him dizzy. She says something in Valyrian, and Daenerys translates, “She says that black is the only color that does not fail you. I will make sure she adds some red, too.”

“The Kingsguard wear white,” he reminds her.

“And Targaryens wear black and red,” she reminds him. “Besides, no one has ever had a  _ Queens _ guard before. The rules will be different.” She says something to the seamstress, who looks at Jon but nods. 

“What does that mean?”

“You’ll see,” Daenerys says cryptically.

.

It only takes a matter of days for the seamstress to bring them their clothes. In the meantime, Qartheens send gifts to the Mother of Dragons, and a few even remember Jon in their generosity. They all want to see the dragons, and if their tokens are good enough, Daenerys gives them what they want. She holds audience after audience in Xaro’s receiving chamber, letting the dragons climb all over her as the gift-givers weep with ecstacy. The Qartheen weep constantly, as they believe it is the mark of a civilized person. 

Jon cares little for their tears, but he cares deeply for the tokens they send, because each one brings them closer to sailing for Westeros. He and Daenerys sell all the gifts in exchange for gold to bribe their way into an audience with the Pureborn, and to hopefully buy an army to fill the Pureborn’s fleets. The only gift Daenerys keeps is a crown offered by the Tourmaline Brotherhood, a three headed dragon of gold, silver, jade, ivory, and onyx. It’s a beautiful crown, and likely the only crown Daenerys will wear anytime soon. Even when they retake the Seven Kingdoms, Jon doubts her father’s crown is still usable; more likely Robert had it melted down. 

When the seamstress does bring their clothes, Jon is relieved to see that he is not being made to wear anything garish; his clothes are all in black, leather tunics emblazoned with the Targaryen sigil and silk shirts that will keep him cool on the hottest of days.

Daenerys’s clothes have more variety; she has at least one dress in every color, all of them baring one breast in the Qartheen style. Jon tries not to look at her when she tries on these dresses, but she tells him he’s more modest than the Maiden.

“We are kin, you and I,” she reminds him. 

“That is  _ why _ I do not want to look.”

“You’ve seen me naked before,” she reminds him. “The day I rose from the ashes I wore nothing but soot.”

“That was different.”

“All the women in Qarth bare their breasts, and I am now a woman in Qarth. You will have to get used to it.”

She has him there.

There are other dresses that are not in the Qartheen fashion; a black dress that is more functional than fashionable, the sleeves long but the skirt up to her shin, and a deep red gown lined in black. When she and Jon stand beside each other in the mirror, they truly look like royalty. Though she is every inch a Targaryen with silver hair and purple eyes, and he looks nothing like his father’s side of the family with his black hair and dark grey eyes, he can see the resemblance between them. It’s the black that brings it out, he realizes; the black and the red. 

Maybe he’s only imagining it; maybe it’s only wishful thinking.

“You look well,” she says, eyeing his reflection approvingly. “A true Targaryen.”

“Or the son of one, anyway.”

“You  _ are _ a Targaryen,” she insists, linking her arm through his. “And together, we will take back the Seven Kingdoms. But first, we must make the traditional sacrifice at the Temple of Memory.”

He sighs. “Then let us go.”

Daenerys goes to change back into one of her Qartheen gowns, but stops short as soon as the seamstress has left. 

“Jon?”

“Yes, my queen?”

She hesitates. “Would you tell me the truth? Even if it meant angering me?”

“I would never lie to you.”

“But if you knew I was making a mistake...if you thought my actions were foolish...you would tell me? Wouldn’t you?”

_ She is worried about this place. She fears we are wasting our time here--and our coin. _

“I would tell you if I thought you were making the wrong decision,” he assures her. 

“Even if I did not ask?”

“Even if you did not ask.”

Her face clears a little. “And you don’t think...coming here was the wrong decision?”

“I think there were few decisions left to us,” he says gently. “But no, I do not think it was the wrong decision.”

Her face clears completely at that. “I trust you, Jon.”

He bows his head. “And I hope to never betray that trust.”

.

Xaro accompanies them to the Temple of Memory, where Daenerys and Jon offer a sacrifice. The Qartheen watch in approval, murmuring to one another in Valyrian as the last Targaryens make their first public appearance since they entered the city. 

The gifts start flooding in after that. People beyond the walls of Qarth hear about the Mother of Dragons, and all of them want to see her and her children. Servants come bearing every kind of riches imaginable, from spice to fabric to wine to live tumblers. Daenerys sells all that can be sold, and when she has earned enough money, she bribes the Keeper of the Long List and three of the Pureborn that Xaro had said were sure to help her. The gold she sends them would be enough to buy a ship on its own, but the bribe may buy them an entire fleet. 

Though they are both anxious for an audience with the Pureborn, Jon admits to himself that he enjoys the lull between tasks. While they wait for the blue slippers, he and Daenerys find ways to amuse themselves; they explore the city, admire trinkets in the market, and play cyvasse until they know each other’s moves too well to keep playing. In the late hours of night when they ought to be sleeping, they drink flagons of wine and speak from the heart. Jon finds himself telling Daenerys things he’s never told anyone, and she tells him things he doubts very much she’s ever told anyone else. 

“Viserys was my brother, but more than that, he was a keeper,” says Daenerys--or Dany, as he’s started calling her. Perhaps he ought not to, but she doesn’t seem to mind the nickname. “He was my brother, mother, father, and husband from the day my mother died. He aged twenty years the first time we were turned out on the streets, and he aged a little more every time it happened after. We never had the carefree love a brother and sister should have had.” She leans in. “ _ We _ have that love, you and I.”

“I would hardly say we are  _ carefree _ ,” he reminds her.

“True,” she allows. “But I enjoy my time with you, Jon. I have  _ fun _ with you; I don’t think I’ve ever truly had fun before. Not really. You are my brother in so many ways.”

He’s touched by the admission. “You honor me.”

“Do you still think of me as your aunt?”

“In truth, no,” he admits. “The only aunt I had turned out to be my mother, and you’re not nearly old enough to be my mother.”

She laughs heartily at that. “No, I’m not.”

“I do love you,” he says a long moment later. “I don’t know if it’s as a sister, but I think...it’s hard for me to imagine anyone but Sansa and Arya as my sisters. Though in truth, they are not my sisters. One of my real sisters died before I was born, and the other I’ve only met a handful of times, and always as a cousin. I have more sisters and cousins and aunts than I know what to do with.”

“You are blessed,” she says with a touch of envy.

Jon twines his hand with hers. “You’ll meet all of them someday. Sansa and Arya, my mother, Lady Catelyn, Cassie. They are my family, and they will be yours, too.”

She smiles. “You are all the family I need, Jon. You, and my dragons...but I will welcome them all the same. If they will have me.”

Will they? Will Sansa and Arya accept her? Will Cassie? The last one especially worries him. She is Robert’s daughter...yet she is also Lyanna’s, and in that, she is Jon’s sister. Will she accept her brother and his aunt? The good-sister of her mother, and in that, her own aunt? 

_ Only time will tell...but it will be hard to turn her away from her father. _


	25. LYANNA VI

Lyanna reads Jon’s letter over and over and over. There’s so much to find here. Dragons live again, Daenerys knows the truth, and Jon is a knight of the Queensguard. All her fears were in vain.

“She is truly the prince that was promised,” Melisandre says excitedly. “Born amidst salt and smoke--the salt of her tears, and the smoke of Khal Drogo’s funeral pyre.”

“Can a woman be a prince?”

“In Valyrian, that word has no gender...so yes. She is the prince that was promised, Azor Ahai reborn. Praise R’hllor.” Melisandre goes to her fire, sprinkling herbs that hiss when they meet the flames.

Lyanna sinks down into a chair. Dragons.  _ Dragons. _ Now they are  _ sure _ to take back the Seven Kingdoms.

“Where is Qarth?” she asks Melisandre after a long moment. “I do not recall hearing of such a place before.”

“It is far,” Melisandre admits. “East of Slaver’s Bay, but west of Yi Ti. It sits upon the Jade Gates, which straddle the Summer Sea and the Jade Sea. The Qartheen believe that it is the greatest city that ever was or will ever be.”

“All men believe that of their cities.”

“True,” Melisandre allows. “But the Qartheen also believe civilization sprang from Qarth. They are a selfish, heartless people...but wealthy. Enormously wealthy.”

Lyanna looks sharply up at that. “Enough wealth to furnish Jon and Daenerys with an army and a fleet?”

“Yes,” Melisandre says, but she is reluctant.

“What is it?”

“As I said, they are selfish and heartless. They may not see the use in furnishing Jon and Daenerys with ships and an army. If it is to their benefit, then they will do it, but I would tread lightly when it comes to the Qartheen. Even if they do provide the ships and army, as soon as they fear for their investment, they will revoke it. Daenerys will never fully be able to rely on their support.”

“I don’t think she’ll ever fully be able to rely on anyone’s support.” Lyanna sighs. “But it’s better than wandering the Red Waste with a dying  _ khalasar _ . At least now they have a chance. And speaking of chances, Littlefinger is still alive.”

“You think the girl lied?”

“I don’t know,” she admits. “I trusted her. I still do. But why is it taking so long? I’ve never seen him shy away from wine before.”

“Perhaps she told him it’s poisoned.”

Lyanna shakes her head. “No. He’d be after me if she did that.”

“He could be after you now, planning something.”

She opens her mouth to argue, but the door opens, and Cassie comes rushing in.

“Mother!” she exclaims, and though she is far too old for such things, she throws herself onto her mother’s lap. “Uncle Ned is sending Robb and Theon to Dorne!”

“Yes, I know.” It was she who’d suggested it. Ned and Catelyn are trying to find a match for their eldest son and heir to Winterfell, and so far, none of the girls at court have been able to hold his interest. She’s sure that the girls in Dorne will  _ easily _ hold his interest, especially if they’re one of Oberyn Martell’s infamous daughters. They’re nearly men, Robb and Theon, in any case, and they ought to sow their wild oats now before they take wives. A trip to Sunspear will be just the thing.

“I want to go, too.”

Lyanna smiles. “I’m afraid not, my love; this trip is just for Robb and Theon.”

Cassie frowns. “But why?”

How to explain to her daughter? “They’re going to find a bride for Robb.”

“I could help him find a bride.”

“I’m sure you could,” Lyanna laughs. “But they’ll have more fun if it’s just the two of them.”

Cassie’s frown deepens. “The boys always get to go somewhere fun. First Jon, now Robb. Next thing it’ll be Bran going to the Summer Isles.”

_ If only it were as simple as Jon going somewhere fun. If only she knew the truth. _

“I hear your cousin Sansa is being courted by Lord Edric Dayne.”

Cassie considers her. “Yes.”

“Perhaps you girls can all visit Starfall together.”

Cassie lights up at that. “Truly, Mother?”

“Why not? I’ll speak to Lord Dayne and see what can be arranged.”

Cassie throws her arms around her in a tight hug. “Thank you!” She dashes out of the room, much to Lyanna’s amusement. Her daughter is wild and spoiled, exactly the sort of child Lyanna has always imagined she’d have. 

_ I may have failed Jon as a mother, but I will not fail Cassie. Not if I can help it. _

.

In the afternoon, Lyanna braces herself for a most unpleasant task: tea with Cersei. 

She hates her good-sister, if she’s being honest. And Cersei hates her. For the most part, they’re able to maintain a wide berth. 

But sometimes it’s unavoidable. Not that Lyanna has stopped looking for ways to avoid it; she’s seriously debating stabbing herself in the eye with a sewing needle when Fat Walda walks in, sees her face, and starts laughing.

“Quiet.”

“She can’t be  _ that _ bad!” Walda hoots. “At least she  _ pretends _ to be nice. My grandfather never pretends to be nice to anybody, not even the Tullys, and he’s their bannerman.”

“In many ways, I prefer your grandfather’s bluntness to Cersei’s pretenses. If you’re going to hate me, come right out and say so.”

“She’d never say so.”

“I know,” Lyanna sighs. She turns this way and that, looking in her mirror. “Well, how do I look? Beyond reproach?”

“Far beyond,” Walda agrees. 

As satisfied as she’ll ever be, Lyanna heads for the gardens. She’d almost prefer tea with Selyse...at least Selyse is straightforward, if timid as a mouse and annoyingly soft-spoken. Cersei is sharpened steel hiding behind silk. 

Her good-sister is waiting for her in the gardens, resplendent in Lannister crimson and gold. She rises to greet the queen, the sweet smell of her perfume enveloping Lyanna like a cloud when she kisses her cheek.

“Your Grace,” Cersei greets. “How lovely to see you.”

“And you.” Lyanna takes her seat, helping herself to the steaming pot that the servants have brought. “I trust you’re well?”

“Very well, thank you. I always enjoy coming to court.”

“And the children?”

Genuine pleasure fills Cersei’s face. “They are also well. There are so many children their age and of suitable position for them to spend their time with here. It’s harder at Storm’s End. The estate is very...isolated.”

“That it is,” Lyanna agrees. “I’m sure it can be very lonely.”

“It can be,” Cersei cedes. “Which is why I spend so much time at court. Well, part of why.”

“I imagine it must be hard to be parted from your husband for so long a time.”

Cersei’s smile is queer. “Yes. My husband.”

Lyanna reaches for a scone. “Your brother is here, too. Ser Jaime. It must be pleasant to see him so often.”

Cersei stiffens. “It is...not unpleasant.”

“I wish I saw Ned more often,” Lyanna confides. “And Benjen, though I’ve made my peace with his position. Do you see your other brother often?” She cannot bear to ask about Lord Tywin, not after everything.

“Tyrion? More often than I would like.” The other woman speaks with a frankness that surprises Lyanna. “My brother has a habit of turning up anywhere at any time. Anything to get away from Casterly Rock, I suppose.”

Lyanna raises an eyebrow. “Is he not the heir to Casterly Rock?”

“By law, yes...but my father still holds out hope that Jaime will renounce his vows and take up his place as heir.”

That’s no secret; half the realm knows how furious Tywin was when Jaime took the white, and how much he despises his younger son. The Imp, they call him. The cleverest man in Westeros, Lyanna calls him. He’s often a visitor at court, where he is more accepted than in his father’s presence, and Lyanna has always enjoyed his company. He’s the quickest wit she’s ever met, and he has a heart of gold. His stunted height and uneven face are of little consequence to her. 

“The Kingsguard is for life,” Lyanna muses. “Even if he did renounce his vows, he’d be…”

“A disgrace,” Cersei finishes for her. “Yes. I know. But my father doesn’t see it that way.”

It was Aerys who’d tricked Jaime into becoming a Kingsguard, to take away Tywin’s golden heir. And now, years after his death, Jaime is still wrapped in his chains. Feeling an uncharacteristic pang of sympathy for the other woman, Lyanna murmurs, “Aerys was a cruel man, wasn’t he? The things he did to our families.”

Cersei’s anger is palpable, but Lyanna knows it’s not directed at her. “He was a monster. I still remember the time I was a child and my parents brought me to court. In front of Jaime and I, Aerys asked my mother if nursing us had ruined her breasts.” She grips the arms of her chair. “He was a terrible man.”

“He was,” Lyanna agrees. She rarely speaks about Aerys; in addition to angering Robert, it also incites her own anger. “Terrible, and suspicious.”

“Not suspicious enough.” Something like grim satisfaction takes over Cersei’s face. “Pycelle convinced him to open the gates for my lord father that day.”

They’re quiet for a long moment, remembering all that happened the day Tywin Lannister’s army sacked King’s Landing. 

“I was meant to marry Rhaegar, you know,” Cersei says suddenly. “Our mothers had planned it. But Aerys refused to honor the betrothal, and had Rhaegar married to Elia Martell.” She looks at Lyanna, almost accusatory. 

“You truly think you would have been happy with Rhaegar?” Lyanna cannot help asking. “With a man who dishonored his wife and kidnapped and raped a young girl?”

“He would not have dishonored me.”

Lyanna cannot help but laugh harshly at that. “You’re not nearly as clever as I thought you were, Cersei. Rhaegar would have dishonored you if you could not bear him three children.”

Cersei’s eyes flicker. “Three?”

“It was a prophecy he believed in,” Lyanna dismisses. “You think he took me because he loved me? No. He wanted to get a child on me, the third head of the dragon.” She sucks in a breath, because she realizes now that she may have said too much.

Cersei looks more discomfited than Lyanna has ever seen her. 

“Three for you,” she murmurs. 

“What?”

The other woman shakes her head. “There was a woods witch when I was a child...she told me I would wed the king and become the queen, and I would have three children.”

Lyanna raises an eyebrow. Perhaps Cersei really  _ was _ meant to wed Rhaegar.

_ Think how much simpler it all would have been. She could have given him three children and he never would have taken me. Their children would be the three heads of the dragon, perhaps one of them would be the prince that was promised, and none of this would be on my shoulders. I’d be in Storm’s End, where I could ride whenever I wanted, and I’d never have had to part with my firstborn for fear my husband would kill him. _

Wynafryd Manderly approaches, curtsying low before pressing her lips to Lyanna’s ear. “Pardon, Your Grace, but the woman Ros is here.”

Ros. She must have word. Lyanna forces a smile at Cersei, who regards her with curiosity. 

“I apologize; something unexpected has arisen that I must take care of immediately. Pray excuse me.” She rises, Cersei swiftly doing the same.

“Of course. Thank you for tea, Your Grace.”

“Of course.” Lyanna takes her leave, walking swiftly to her rooms.

Ros is indeed waiting for her, pretty as a peach in yellow silk. She curtsies when she sees Lyanna, but there is apprehension behind her eyes.

“What is it? Is it done?” Lyanna asks anxiously.

Ros shakes her head. “No, Your Grace...I came to tell you that the wine is missing.”

“Missing?” Lyanna stares at her. “What do you mean, it’s missing?”

“That’s just it; the cask was in his study, but when I went in the other day, it was gone. I don’t know where he would have taken it, but he’s still alive, so I know he didn’t drink it.”

Lyanna feels her heart quicken. “You think...he gave it to someone?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t ask without raising suspicion.”

“No, you couldn’t have,” Lyanna agrees. “Gods be good.” She paces up and down her chamber, biting her nails. If anyone else drinks the wine, they’ll die, and then he’ll know. But who? Who would he have given it to? His clients, perhaps? Are dozens of men about to drop dead?

But no, Ros had said the cask was completely gone. Not drunk, gone. So he took it somewhere, though what he did with it or why, she may never know.

“We’ll have to lay low,” she decides at last. “If anyone dies, we’ll know who he gave it to, but in the meantime, we can’t risk another attempt. If the wine is traced back to him and he dies, people will know there was an assassination attempt on his life.”

“Begging your pardon, but they were always going to know,” Ros points out. 

“Yes, but the fewer attempts, the easier it will be to get away.” Lyanna sighs heavily. “Gods, why did I think I could do this?”

“Because he cornered you and threatened you,” Ros reminds her. “He holds your greatest secret and threatens to spill it at any moment. You are right to fear him, and to want to be rid of him.” She comes forward, taking Lyanna’s hands. “Let me see what I can do.”

Lyanna blinks at her. “About what? The wine?”

“The wine, silencing him...whatever it is you want. Only let me serve you, Your Grace.”

Her touch is warm, and Lyanna feels a rush of desire she has not felt since…

_ Since I met Melisandre. _

She looks away. How is it this whore from Winter Town makes her knees buckle? 

“Shall I sing to you?” Ros asks softly. “I have a good voice, and you seem in need of a song.”

Lyanna cannot remember the last time someone sang to comfort her. Wylla, perhaps, in the Tower of Joy. Every singer since then has only wanted her praise. 

_ They all want something from me. Ros must know what that’s like.  _

“I am,” Lyanna relents. “Sing me a Northern song, Ros.” 

While Ros reclines on her bed, Lyanna’s head pillowed against her breast, the redhead combs her fingers through Lyanna’s hair and sings “The Winter Maid”. It makes Lyanna weep; she weeps for the North, for Winterfell, and for Jon. 


	26. JON XI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed that I officially added Emily as a co-author! I really can't stress enough how impossible this fic would be without her--she has amazing ideas and is incredible at helping me talk through my vaguest plans.

At long last, the blue silk slippers arrive, summoning Dany to the Hall of a Thousand Thrones. She spends hours deliberating over her raiment, finally choosing a flowing gown of green samite--one breast bared, of course, in the Qartheen fashion, and a belt of black and white pearls around her waist. Silver sandals adorn her feet, and around her neck, a silver collar with an amethyst that Xaro Xhoan Daxos swears will protect her from poison. 

“Do you think she is truly at risk of being poisoned?” Jon asks with concern.

“The Pureborn are notorious for offering poisoned wine to those they deem dangerous. Queen Daenerys should take it as a compliment.”

“It’s not much of a compliment if she dies,” Jon points out irritably. 

“That’s why I’ll have you, my brother, nephew, and protector,” she says with a gentle smile. In her hands she holds the crown given her by the Tourmaline Brotherhood, and Jon sets it atop her short silver hair.

“The Thirteen will give you a much finer crown,” Xaro sighs.

But Dany shakes her head. “Viserys sold my mother’s crown, and men called him a beggar. I shall keep this one, so men will call me a queen. Shall we go?”

Jon hands her up into the litter beside Xaro and then mounts his horse, staying by her side. He knows that behind the curtain, Xaro is instructing her on what to say. His own role is to be still and silent beside her, the bastard Targaryen that will see her safely ensconced on the Iron Throne.

When they arrive at the Hall of a Thousand Thrones, Jon hands her out; together, they head inside, the dragons on their shoulders to add weight to their plea. 

Jon was expecting a collection of exquisite people. He was not expecting a herd of old white men who looked bored at the very sight of Dany. 

_ Days ago they welcomed her into the city with flower petals and trumpets blasting. Now they cannot so much as stir a welcome. _

One of the men they bought, Egon Emeris the Exquisite, offers a thin smile. “Queen Daenerys,” he says in the Common Tongue. “How beautiful you are now that the Red Waste is washed off you. Have our servants offered you refreshment?”

“Thank you, my lord, but no servant can offer me what I want.”

One of the Pureborn smiles at his companions. “She has a talent for drama, this one.”

“What is it you want?” Wendello Qar Deeth asks. 

Dany straightens her spine. “My birthright--the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros.”

“I fear we are no better than a servant in this regard,” Wendello says, and Jon’s heart sinks. He was one of the men they’d paid off--if this is his response, what will the others say? “We cannot give you what we do not have.”

“I’m not asking you for the kingdoms,” Dany says patiently, but Jon can sense her agitation. On her shoulder, Rhaegal hisses. “I’m asking you for ships. I need to cross the Narrow Sea.”

“We need our ships as well,” one of the other Pureborn chimes, his face nearly as condescending as his voice. “We use them, you see.”

“Whatever you grant me now will be repaid three times over when I retake the Iron Throne.” 

“Retake?” The Pureborn’s purple eyebrows rise toward his nonexistent hairline. “Did you once sit on the Iron Throne?”

_ They do not mean to help her, _ Jon realizes.  _ She was only an amusement to them. _

“My father sat there before he was murdered,” she says, and though she stands tall, Jon can tell that her own heart is sinking. 

“But if you did not sit on it yourself, would it not be correct to say  _ take _ the Iron Throne?”

“I didn’t come here to argue grammar.”

“Of course not. You came here to take our ships.”

“No one came here to take anything.” Too angered to keep silent, Jon speaks at last. “Queen Daenerys has asked for a favor that will be repaid three times over. Is that so unreasonable?”

He hears one of the Pureborn mutter, “ _ What _ is that savage noise he’s making?”

“Let us explain our position,” the Exquisite says. “We do not doubt your honesty or your intentions. But before you repay your debts, you must seize the Seven Kingdoms. Do you have an army?”

“Not yet,” Dany admits. 

“You do not have an army. Do you have powerful allies in Westeros?”

She glances at Jon. 

“My mother. Queen Lyanna,” he says. “And the whole of the North.”

The Pureborn discuss them amongst themselves with whispers soft as silk...but when they turn back to the Targaryens, Jon knows what they have decided. 

“It is not enough. Forgive us, Mother of Dragons, but we cannot make an investment on such thin assurances.”

Jon opens his mouth, but Dany nudges him, shaking her head. 

“Thank you, my lords,” she says stiffly. She turns and leaves, Rhaegal and Viserion screeching from her shoulders. Jon keeps pace, Rhaegal scrambling from one shoulder to the other. 

Outside, Xaro waits in the litter. Jon helps her inside, scooping Rhaegal off his shoulder and depositing him with his brothers, before he mounts his horse. Jhogo leads them out into the city, calling in a thick accent for everyone to make way for the Mother of Dragons. 

“Well?” Jorah asks.

Jon shakes his head. “They said no.”

Jorah sighs. “I feared as much.”

“She walked through fire and was unharmed, she hatched dragons from stone; what more do they want from her?”

“Wealth. Power. Promises built on more than words.”

“She will keep her word.”

“But they do not know that. The Qartheen are faithless; why should they trust this beggar girl who comes from the Red Waste?”

As much as he hates to admit it, Jon understands why the Qartheen are hesitant to back Dany’s venture. She’s lost everything she’s ever had. If they gave her ships and an army, what guarantee would there be that they’d ever see those men or ships again? 

_ But she is the Mother of Dragons. If she could turn stone into fire made flesh, imagine what she could do with ships and an army. _

As if reading his thoughts, fire suddenly surges up into the sky. Jon stiffens in fear, but he realizes that it is only a marketplace trick, a firemage conjuring a ladder of flame. All around them, the people at the bazaar have stopped to watch the mage. 

Dany leans out of the litter. “What are they looking at?”

“A firemage,” Jon tells her.

“I want to see.”

“Then you must.” He lifts her from the litter onto his horse, where they both watch the firemage build his ladder ever higher. The ladder has to be forty feet high when the mage begins to climb it. He scrambles up it quickly, and each rung disappears behind him until he reaches the top, and mage and ladder both vanish into thin air. The spectators burst into applause. 

“How did he do that?” Jon asks in awe. He’s seen many things since coming east, but how does one explain something like that?

“Half a year gone, that man could scarcely wake fire from dragonglass.” Jon and Dany both look down to see Quaithe, her eyes wet and shiny behind the red lacquer mask. “He had some small skill with powders and wildfire, sufficient to entrance a crowd while his cutpurses did their work. He could walk across hot coals and make burning roses bloom in the air, but he could no more aspire to climb the fiery ladder than a common fisherman could hope to catch a kraken in his nets. And now, his powers grow, and you are the cause of it, Daenerys Stormborn.”

Dany laughs nervously. “How could that be?”

Quaithe steps closer and lays two fingers on Dany’s wrist. “You are the Mother of Dragons, are you not? You must leave this city soon, Daenerys Targaryen, or you will never be permitted to leave it at all.” 

A chill runs down Jon’s spine. 

“Where would you have me go?” Dany asks, her voice quiet. 

“To go north, you must journey south. To reach the west, you must go east. To go forward you must go back, and to touch the light you must pass beneath the shadow.” 

Jon doesn’t know what to make of this, but Dany does.

“Will the Asshai’i give me an army?” she demands. “Will there be gold for me in Asshai? Will there be ships? What is there in Asshai that I will not find in Qarth?” 

“Truth.” Bowing, Quaithe fades back into the crowd. 

Rakharo snorts with contempt. “ _ Khaleesi _ , better a man should swallow scorpions than trust in the spawn of shadows, who dare not show their face beneath the sun. It is known.” 

“It is known,” Aggo agrees. 

_ But who else can we trust? _ Jon wonders.

.

After Daenerys has changed out of her finery and into a simple robe, she summons Jon and Jorah to counsel her. 

“You will get no help in this city,  _ Khaleesi _ ,” Jorah says bluntly. “Each day I am more convinced of that than the day before. The Pureborn see no farther than the walls of Qarth, and Xaro...” 

“He asked me to marry him again.” 

Jorah frowns. “Yes, and I know why.” 

“He wants to bed my sweet nephew,” she teases.

Jon glowers at her.

“That may be,” Jorah allows. “But there is a reason he wants to marry you...so he can own your dragons.”

“Xaro assures me that in Qarth, man and woman each retain their own property after they are wed. The dragons are mine.” 

“He tells it true as far as it goes, but there’s one thing he failed to mention. The Qartheen have a curious wedding custom, my queen. On the day of their union, a wife may ask a token of love from her husband. Whatsoever she desires of his worldly goods, he must grant. And he may ask the same of her. One thing only may be asked, but whatever is named may not be denied.” 

Jon had not known that. He’s spent so much time laughing and being a child again with Dany that his senses are dulled. He should have seen this sooner.

“One thing,” Dany repeats. “And it may not be denied?” 

“With one dragon, Xaro Xhoan Daxos would rule this city, but one ship will further our cause but little.” 

Dany hesitates...and then looks at Jon. “You swore to tell me the truth, always. What do you think I should do?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “We cannot go west as we are now, that is for a certainty.”

“I am half a world away from my kingdom even here,” she points out. “If I go any farther east I may never find my way home to Westeros.” 

“If you go west, you risk your life.” 

“House Targaryen has friends in the Free Cities,” she reminds him. “Truer friends than Xaro or the Pureborn.” 

Jorah shifts uneasily. “If you mean Illyrio Mopatis, I wonder. For sufficient gold, Illyrio would sell you as quickly as he would a slave.” 

“My brother and I were guests in Illyrio’s manse for half a year. If he meant to sell us, he could have done it then.” 

“He did sell you,” Jorah says gently. “To Khal Drogo.” 

Jon looks away. Dany had seemed to love Drogo, but she had been sold for an army.  _ It was Illyrio who arranged it, but it was Viserys who let it happen. Her own brother. _

“Illyrio protected us from the Usurper’s knives, and he believed in my brother’s cause,” Dany argues.

“Illyrio believes in no cause but Illyrio. Gluttons are greedy men as a rule, and magisters are devious. Illyrio Mopatis is both. What do you truly know of him?” Jorah counters

“I know that he gave me my dragon eggs.” 

He snorts. “If he’d known they were like to hatch, he would have sat on them himself.” 

Dany smiles. “Oh, I have no doubt of that, ser. I know Illyrio better than you think. I was a child when I left his manse in Pentos to wed my sun-and-stars, but I was neither deaf nor blind. And I am no child now.” 

“Even if Illyrio is the friend you think him,” Jorah presses, “he is not powerful enough to enthrone you by himself, no more than he could your brother.” 

“He is rich,” Jon points out. “Not so rich as Xaro, perhaps, but rich enough to hire ships, and men as well.” 

“Sellswords have their uses,” Jorah admits, “but you will not win the Iron Throne with sweepings from the Free Cities. Nothing knits a broken realm together so quick as an invading army on its soil.” 

“I am their rightful queen,” Dany protests. 

“You are a stranger who means to land on their shores with an army of outlanders who cannot even speak the Common Tongue. The lords of Westeros do not know you, and have every reason to fear and mistrust you. You must win them over before you sail. A few at least.” 

“And how am I to do that, if I go east as you counsel?” 

“I do not know, Your Grace, but I do know that the longer you remain in one place, the easier it will be for your enemies to find you. The name Targaryen still frightens them, so much so that they sent a man to murder you when they heard you were with child. What will they do when they learn of your dragons?” 

Dany strokes Drogon, more to reassure herself than anything.

“The comet led me to Qarth for a reason. I had hoped to find my army here, but it seems that will not be. What else remains, I ask myself?” She pauses. “Come the morrow, you must go to Pyat Pree.” 

“That blue-lipped corpse?” Jon asks in surprise. 

Dany looks at him. “Quaithe said magic has become stronger since the dragons were born. He is a warlock, is he not? One who wields magic. If anyone can help me, he can.”

Jon opens his mouth, and just as quickly closes it again. She has the right of it. And in any case, what else is there to do? They have no friends in this queer city. 

_ That blue-lipped corpse may be our only hope. _

.

They ride in silence to the House of the Undying. By far the ugliest part of the city, the long, low ruin has no towers or windows. The roof is made of broken tile, the paving stones are little more than dust. There are no other buildings nearby, only black trees with inky blue leaves, from which, Xaro tells Jon, the warlocks make their shade of the evening. 

“Blood of my blood,” Jhogo says in Dothraki, “this is an evil place, a haunt of ghosts and maegi. See how it drinks the morning sun? Let us go before it drinks us as well.” 

“What power can they have if they live in that?” Jorah murmurs.

“Heed the wisdom of those who love you best,” says Xaro, lounging inside the palanquin.  _ Gods forbid he bestir himself for anything. _ “Warlocks are bitter creatures who eat dust and drink of shadows. They will give you naught. They have naught to give.” 

Aggo puts a hand on his  _ arakh _ . “ _ Khaleesi _ , it is said that many go into the Palace of Dust, but few come out.” 

“It is said,” Jhogo agrees. 

“We are blood of your blood,” says Aggo, “sworn to live and die as you do. Let us walk with you in this dark place, to keep you safe from harm.” 

“Some places even a  _ khal _ must walk alone,” Dany says. 

“You don’t have to go alone—” Jon starts to protest, but another voice cuts him off.

“Queen Daenerys must enter alone, or not at all.” Blue-lipped Pyat Pree steps out from under the trees. “Should she turn away now, the doors of wisdom shall be closed to her forevermore.” 

“My pleasure barge awaits, even now,” Xaro calls out. “Turn away from this folly, most stubborn of queens. I have flutists who will soothe your troubled soul with sweet music, and a small girl whose tongue will make you sigh and melt.” 

Jorah looks nervous. “Your Grace, remember Mirri Maz Duur.” 

“I do,” Dany says, her voice strong. “I remember that she had knowledge. And she was only a  _ maegi _ .” 

Pyat Pree smiles thinly. “The child speaks as sagely as a crone. Take my arm, and let me lead you.” 

“I am no child.” But Dany takes his arm nonetheless, and lets him lead her into the grove of trees.

For half a heartbeat, Jon nearly follows her...but Dany had bid him stay, so he will.  _ This is her journey, not mine. _

Yet even so, he fears he will never see her again.

.

Dany spends hours inside. Jon and the others grow more and more restless, pacing until they are frantic with worry.

“We should look for her,” Jon says in Dothraki. “Circle the palace.”

They circle for hours more, calling for her. It’s Jhogo who finds her at last, cracking his whip and catching Pyat Pree around the wrist. A knife falls from the warlock’s hand, and Rakharo vaults from his horse to slam the warlock onto the ground.

Dany sinks to the ground on trembling legs, but is otherwise unharmed. Jon has to carry her to his horse, where he helps her up before swinging up onto the saddle behind her.

“She would be better off in the litter,” Xaro calls from beneath the curtain, but Jon only casts him a withering glare.

“She would be better off far from this place--and from you.” Incensed, he spurs the horse away.

It is not until later, when she has washed and dressed and ordered her bloodriders to stand guard, that she tells Jon all that she saw. He listens carefully, but hesitantly.

“You don’t believe it?” she asks when she is finished.

“I believe the Undying made you see visions that they created...just as the firemage built a ladder of flame.”

“I don’t understand.” 

“The ladder was a distraction; the real trick was making so many look up while down below, their purses were being cut from their belts.”

Dany bites her lip. “You think they meant to distract me from my purpose.”

“I do.”

She opens her mouth...and then closes it again, reaching for his hand. “Thank you, Jon.”

Doreah enters with a curtsy. “Forgive me,  _ Khaleesi, _ but there is a man here to see you...he says he was sent by Illyrio Mopatis.”

“Send him in,” Dany says at once, rising.

The man that enters is unlike any Jon has ever seen before. Huge and brown, his bare chest is covered in so many scars Jon knows he must be a fighter. 

“Queen Daenerys,” he says in a thick accent. “I am Belwas. Strong Belwas they name me in the fighting pits of Meereen. Never did I lose.” He slaps his belly, covered with scars. “I let each man cut me once, before I kill him. Count the cuts and you will know how many Strong Belwas has slain.” 

Dany glances at Jon. “And why are you here, Strong Belwas?” 

“From Meereen I am sold to Qohor, and then to Pentos and the fat man with sweet stink in his hair. He it was who send Strong Belwas back across the sea.”

“Why?” 

“He would have dragons,” says Belwas, “and the girl who makes them. He would have you. He send me to take you.”

Jon’s heart soars. He looks at Dany, whose eyes are wide with excitement...yet she hesitates. “I have three dragons, and more than a hundred in my  _ khalasar _ , with all their goods and horses.” 

“It is no matter,” booms Belwas. “We take all. The fat man hires three ships for his little silverhair queen.” 

“I shall tell my people to make ready to depart at once.” As soon as Belwas is gone, Dany throws her arms around Jon. “We have ships at last. We can go home, Jon.”

_ Home. _ They still have an army to raise, and more ships to carry them...but that will come in time. Three ships and Strong Belwas are a start. They have to be.


	27. NED IV

Maester Frenken brings them the raven’s scroll while they are breaking their fast. 

“For Lady Catelyn, from Riverrun,” he explains, bowing before taking his leave.

Catelyn takes it with a curious look, breaking the wax and unfurling the little scroll. Ned has a good guess of what lies within: word about her father, no doubt. Lord Hoster’s letters have been fewer and farther between, and when Edmure writes, he takes care not to mention Hoster’s health. The Lord of Riverrun was always proud, and he will not want anyone to know he is ill. 

But Ned can see from Catelyn’s face that it is past time for all that. She looks up, her face grieved. 

“What is it, Mother?” Sansa asks from where she’s eating her stewed apples. 

Catelyn sighs. “Your Uncle Edmure writes to tell me that our father is very ill.”

“Is he going to die?” Arya blurts.

“Arya!”

Catelyn maintains her composure. “The maester believes his time is near.”

Ned touches her hand. “We’ll go.”

A chorus of protests rise up from the children. Robb and Theon are about to head to Dorne, and Sansa has that boy of hers.  _ Lord Edric Dayne. _ Of course she’d fall for a Dayne. Bran and Arya love it here as well. Only Rickon seems to hate it as much as Ned. Still, this is their grandfather dying.

“Have some respect,” he says sharply.

Catelyn shakes her head. “No, they’re right. There’s no point in coming all the way to Riverrun to wait for my father’s death. It’s...morbid. And it could take as long as months.” She twines her hand with his. “Stay here. With the children. I will take Rickon.” 

“We’re leaving?” the youngest Stark says far too excitedly. 

“You’re going to watch Grandfather die,” Arya points out. 

“Arya, seven hells,” Robb scolds. 

“I could come with you—” Ned starts, but Catelyn shakes her head.

“The children need you here. Your  _ sister _ needs you here,” she says significantly...and he knows she has the right of it. Lyanna told him about Jon’s letter. Jon and Daenerys could be crossing the Narrow Sea any day now. And anyway, the children are happy here. Robb and Theon will be fine in Sunspear, but Sansa will need an eye kept on her while the Dayne boy courts her, and Arya...gods know how wild she is. He’d hoped Cassie would have a calming influence on her, but his niece is as wild as her mother, and they’ve been wreaking havoc all over the city. Even Bran is happier than ever as Robert’s squire, and when he’s not at his duties, he’s with Stannis’s daughter Shireen, with whom he is quite taken.

_ Now that’s a fine match, _ he’s mused more than once. Stannis is a good man, and honorable, and Shireen is his only heir. She will inherit Dragonstone when he dies, and Bran would like the ancient castle. No, all of his children love it here.

He sighs, sinking back in his chair. “I suppose.”

“I won’t be alone,” she assures him. “Lysa will most likely come with me.”

Lysa. Of course. She’ll want to be there with her family. When was the last time the Tullys were all together?  _ Summon Brynden Blackfish and they’ll truly be reunited. _

Jon Arryn is unlikely to travel to Riverrun, and he takes some small comfort in that. Jon has the country to run, after all, and with Hoster’s death still dimly ahead of them, he’s not like to set aside his duties to watch another man die. 

_ Hoster is not yet sixty, Jon more than twenty years his senior. Is it hard for him to watch younger men die of illness and old age? _

Ill at ease, he excuses himself from breakfast. Catelyn follows as he gets up, seeking out the verandah adjoined to their room. He had had some half-cooked notion of taking a breath of fresh air, but he’d forgotten how badly it stinks here. Even in the perfumed gardens of the Red Keep, there’s a cloying, stale scent that seems to cling to his nostrils. He breathes deeply and feels sick to his stomach.

“I know it’s hard,” Catelyn says softly, touching his back. “I know you hate it here. You’re so brave, Ned, to withstand all this.”

Shame takes him as he remembers the reason for his distress. “I’m sorry,” he says, reaching for his wife. “Your father…”

She melts into his embrace, her cheek pressed to his shoulder. “I’d suspected he was unwell for some time, but to have it in writing…I haven’t seen him since I was half a girl. Should I have been a better daughter and visited him more often?”

“It’s a long way from Winterfell to Riverrun,” he says gently. “And it would have been no small task to take the children with you or leave them behind. Your father is not an old man.”

“Nearly sixty,” she reminds him...yet she hesitates. “There are older and haler men out there. Jon Arryn. Walder Frey.”

Ned snorts at this last one. “Walder Frey is kept alive by spite alone, breeding more and more Freys while watching his sons squabble amongst themselves. He will outlive more than a few of them, I’d wager.”

Catelyn’s chuckle is weak. “No doubt.”

He tightens his arms about her. “I’m sorry, Cat. Truly. It is no easy thing, to lose a father. At least you can be there with him, to comfort him in his final hours.”

She kisses his cheek. “Take care of the children while I’m gone. Let Robb and Theon have their fun in Sunspear, but do not let them make fools of themselves or sully our name. Sansa’s a good girl, but sometimes her head is so full of stars that she needs someone to pull her back down to earth. Arya is as wild as those wolves, but more than anything, she wants to please. Praise her when she does well, and make it a lesson when she has done wrong. She’s a quick learner. And tell Bran,  _ no more climbing. _ ”

He smiles. “You may as well tell a bird to stop singing, but I’ll do what I can.”

She gives him a pointed look. “You’d better.”

He kisses her. “I miss you already.”

“And I, you.”

.

Catelyn, Rickon, Robb, Theon, Lysa, and Robin all depart on the same day; Catelyn, Rickon, Lysa, and Robin headed north up the Kingsroad, Robb and Theon headed east and then south on a galley bound for Dorne. Rickon takes Shaggydog with him, and Robb, Grey Wind. Dimly, Ned wonders how the direwolf will like it in Dorne. 

Shaggydog, much like his boy, will be happy for the change. Both wolf and boy have been miserable cooped up in the Red Keep; at least in Riverrun they’ll be able to run free. 

_ Would that I could join them, _ Ned thinks grimly.

He dines with Jon Arryn that night, the two men commiserating over the absence of their wives...though in truth, Jon does not seem as distressed at his wife’s leaving as Ned is over his.

“She is unhappy here,” Jon confides. “Or perhaps it is only me with whom she is unhappy.”

Ned looks at him in surprise. “You truly think that?”

Jon shrugs, sighing. Gods, when had he gotten so  _ old _ ? “I was not her...ideal husband. We wed to form an alliance; she was half a child and I was old enough to be her grandfather. And it hasn’t been easy since; duty requires I live at court, and she’s never liked living here. She doesn’t trust people.”

“In fairness, few are trustworthy in the Red Keep.”

“That is true,” Jon allows. “Do you know, it’s said that Aerys’s last words were, ‘Burn them all.’ I often wonder if he meant the nest of vipers here at court.”

Ned shifts uncomfortably. He knows a thing or two about Aerys’s penchant for burning. “Perhaps.”

Jon takes a sip of his wine, frowning. “That Littlefinger especially.”

“I mislike him.”

“Who doesn’t? Those who don’t know him think him to be a garish upstart. Those who do know him to be a dangerous man. And I mislike the way he sniffs about Lysa.”

_ That _ startles Ned. “Lysa?”

Jon toys with his cup of wine, a disgruntled look on his face. “When we came to Riverrun for your wedding and I asked for Lysa...I’d only meant to secure the Riverlands. When I brought up the match to Hoster, he warned me she was...soiled.”

“Soiled?” Ned repeats in surprise. He’d never have suspected that stern, prim-faced Lysa Tully would have lain with a man who was not her husband. 

“Not only that, but that she had gotten with child from this other man. He’d given her tansy tea to put an end to it, but I was selfish and eager at the prospect of a fertile wife when my nephews had just been slain. I needed sons, and if Lysa had gotten with child once…why not again?” He shakes his head. “I often wonder if Littlefinger was the one who did it.”

Ned is reeling from all of this. “Littlefinger? Got Lysa with child?”

“He was fostered at Riverrun, and close in age to the girls.”

Ned shakes his head. “He loved Cat. My brother Brandon fought him in a duel for her hand.”

“That doesn’t mean he didn’t take advantage of Lysa.”

Ned wouldn’t put it past Littlefinger, truth be told. If he could not have Cat, then why not settle for her sister?

Jon reaches for the pitcher and finds it empty. “There’s a fresh cask I meant to open. Will you have any?”

“No; I fear I’ve had too much wine since coming here.”

Jon chuckles as he opens the new cask, filling his cup. “I felt that way too, at first. But the nights can be hot here, and the wine helps.” He takes a long swallow. “I’m getting too old for this, Ned.”

Ned doesn’t know what to say to that. It would be a lie to disagree, but to agree would be cold. 

“You don’t have to say anything,” Jon says, seeing the look on Ned’s face. “It’s the truth, that’s all.” He swirls the wine in his cup. “I have a mind to retire. Soon I’ll be a doddering old fool, unfit to be the Hand. And in truth, I miss the Eyrie. I should take Lysa and Robin back to the Vale. Tywin Lannister has offered to foster him, and while I cannot say I’m fond of the man, I think it would do Robin good to live with another family for a time. To see other places and meet other people. Perhaps by the time I pass from this world, he’ll be ready to rule the Vale in my place.”

The bluntness with which Jon speaks distresses Ned. “You’re still sharp, and there’s plenty of time…”

“I’m eighty, Ned. Hoster Tully is on his deathbed, and he’s more than twenty years my junior.” Jon shakes his head. “I don’t have forever. And when I take my leave...I will tell Robert to name you as his Hand.”

“No,” Ned protests, but Jon shakes his head again. 

“You’re one of the wisest men I know, Eddard Stark. And a good fit for Robert. Where he is brash and impulsive, you never make a decision lightly. Where he is fire, you are ice. He needs tempering, and you’re just the man for it.”

“I’m not. I have the North to rule, and I hate it here. Stannis would make a better Hand.”

“Stannis is a sensible man, but Robert will never listen to him. He will listen to  _ you. _ ” Jon leans back in his seat, wincing. “Forgive me...all this talk of dying and old age has left me wearier than I thought. And I am old, however kindly you may say otherwise. Pray excuse me, Ned, but I do not think I can entertain anymore this evening.”

“Of course,” he says at once, feeling awful for his old friend. He gets up, reaching hesitantly to help Jon “Do you need anything?”

“Only my squire to help me undress. Don’t look so worried, Ned. I’ll see you on the morrow.”

Reluctantly, Ned leaves his friend and returns to his rooms. The children are all gone, and the bed feels heavy with Cat’s absence. Not even Ghost, resting his enormous head on Ned’s chest, can dull the ache.

.

Bran rouses him in the early hours of the morning. Ned is groggy with sleep, but the peal of bells has him sitting up, the sleep clearing from his head. “What is it?”

“It’s Jon Arryn,” Bran says nervously, his eyes wide and breath ragged. “He’s dead.”


	28. JON XII

The journey west is long. First they encounter a storm off the coast of Faros, which pushes them off course, and then the Summer Sea is so flat and still that they do not have the wind to push the sails. Jon despairs of them ever reaching Pentos. 

And even when they do reach Pentos, what then? They have three ships, but no army, and the dragons are still too small to incite real terror. Daenerys should conquer the Seven Kingdoms from Drogon’s back, Aegon and Balerion come again, but as fast as the dragons are growing, they’re still little bigger than dogs.

Jorah has other concerns.

“I wonder why Illyrio sent for you,” he muses when they break their fast one flat, calm morning. 

“He is my friend, why else?”

Jorah shakes his head. “His friendship comes at a price. He is a rich man, yes, but sending three ships all the way to Qarth to bring back you and your people, for him to accept them into his manse and take care of them...there is something he wants, my queen.”

Dany glances at Jon. “What do you think?”

“I think Jorah is right,” he admits. “I do not doubt he is fond of you, but we must ask ourselves what Illyrio stands to gain from this.”

They’re quiet for a moment, considering.

“I have an idea,” Jorah says at last.

“Then I pray you, tell me,” Dany urges.

“Illyrio Mopatis wants you back in Pentos, under his roof. Very well, go to him...but in your own time, and not alone. Command Groleo to change course for Slaver’s Bay.” 

_ Slaver’s Bay. _ Father had never had anything good to say about it. The people of Slaver’s Bay learned their trade from Old Valyria, and millions were put in chains because of it. 

“What is there for me in Slaver’s Bay?” Dany asks skeptically.

“An army,” says Jorah. “If Strong Belwas is to your liking you can buy hundreds more like him out of the fighting pits of Meereen...but it is Astapor I’d set my sails for. In Astapor you can buy Unsullied.” 

Jon has heard legends of the Unsullied. They are considered the fiercest warriors in the world, because their humanity is taken from them at a young age. They are cut as boys, bled as boys, and they emerge from their training as more than men. Yet they are also slaves, to be bought and sold and given commands. They have no minds of their own, no hearts, no loyalty. Only their masters.

Dany seems to be thinking along similar lines. “Why should I want Unsullied? They are slaves. At least sellswords have their own free will.”

“Free will, yes, but no loyalty, and they will turn tail if they think their lives are at stake,” Jorah points out. “The Unsullied have no such compunctions. They do not fear death, or pain. They will face even the strongest of armies.” He looks imploringly at Jon. “Surely your father told you the tale of the Three Thousand of Qohor?”

Jon hesitates. He  _ has _ heard the story, but he doesn’t want to seem to be aiding Jorah in his quest to buy slaves. 

_ But how else will we get an army? _

“Tell me,” Dany urges.

Jon sighs. “It was hundreds of years ago. A  _ khal _ and fifty thousand of his men rode for Qohor, determined to take the city. The Qohorik knew he was coming, so they strengthened their walls, doubled the size of their guard, and sent for two sellsword companies, the Bright Banners and the Second Sons. Almost as an afterthought, they sent a man to hire three thousand Unsullied. It’s a long march to Qohor, and by the time the Unsullied got there, there was not much left of the Qohorik force; their heavy horse was dead, the sellswords had fled, and the Dothraki were drinking and laughing because they knew that they’d take the city in the morning. 

“Yet in the morning, the Unsullied stood firm outside the city gates. The Dothraki thought they could easily take them, yet the Unsullied stood firm. They’d never encountered men who were so unafraid in the face of twenty thousand screamers. The Dothraki charged eighteen times, yet the Unsullied stood firm. It lasted for three days, and on the fourth day, there were only six hundred Unsullied left, but more than twelve thousand Dothraki lay dead, including the  _ khal _ , his sons, and his  _ kos _ . The new  _ khal _ ordered his riders to cut off their braids and throw them at the feet of the Unsullied as a mark of respect. It is said that ever since then, the city guard of Qohor is made up of Unsullied...and all of them carry a spear with a braid of human hair hanging from the end.”

Dany looks troubled. “They would surely win the Seven Kingdoms for me...but at what cost? Even if I wanted to buy so many slaves, I don’t have the money.”

“There is that,” Jorah allows. “Dragons will be as great a wonder in Astapor as they were in Qarth. It may be that the slavers will shower you with gifts, as the Qartheen did. If not...these ships carry more than your Dothraki and their horses. They took on trade goods at Qarth, I’ve been through the holds and seen for myself. Bolts of silk and bales of tiger skin, amber and jade carvings, saffron, myrrh...slaves are cheap, Your Grace. Tiger skins are costly.” 

_ How can a tiger’s skin be of more worth than a man’s? _ Jon wonders bitterly. 

“Those are Illyrio’s tiger skins,” Dany objects. 

“And Illyrio is a friend to House Targaryen.” 

“All the more reason not to steal his goods.” 

“What use are wealthy friends if they will not put their wealth at your disposal, my queen? If Magister Illyrio would deny you, he is only Xaro Xhoan Daxos with four chins. And if he is sincere in his devotion to your cause, he will not begrudge you three shiploads of trade goods. What better use for his tiger skins than to buy you the beginnings of an army?”

Dany hesitates. “Well...I suppose you are right…but I mislike the idea of a slave army.”

Jorah smiles at her. “I’ve said it before, my queen; you have a gentle heart.”

“I do not have a gentle heart.”

“You do,” Jon objects, and when she turns flashing eyes on him, he adds, “It is your gentle heart that has earned the love of your people. Your  _ khalasar _ did not follow you through the Red Waste because they feared you; they followed you because they  _ chose _ to. Any man can inspire fear, but only a few can inspire love.”

Her eyes soften. “Your words have moved me...yet how will I earn the peoples’ love if I bring a slave army to their shores? Slavery is forbidden in Westeros, yet I would turn a blind eye to the law for my own purposes? I would be an ill queen indeed.”

“At least  _ see _ the Unsullied,” Jorah presses. “If anything, I’m sure the  _ khalasar _ would be grateful for dry land after so long at sea.”

“That’s true,” she agrees. The journey has been hard on them. No Dothraki has ever crossed the “poison water” before, fearing any water that their horses cannot drink. Yet her people had followed her onto Captain Groleo’s three ships without question, clinging to their horses and praying to their ancestors in the night lands in the heart of the storm. Their stomachs heave even when the sea is as flat as it is today, but Jon would not dare mock them; it took great courage for the old and weak and frightened dregs of Drogo’s  _ khalasar _ to board these ships. Not even Drogo would do it, yet those too old and sick and lame to ride a horse have done what he could not.

“Command Captain Groleo to make port in Astapor. If only to look at the Unsullied...and to see if Groleo answers to you, or to Illyrio.”

Dany turns questioning eyes to Jon.

“It’s true that we don’t know Illyrio’s plan,” Jon agrees reluctantly. “If he truly sent Belwas and Groleo and the ships as gifts, they are yours to do with as you please. But if Groleo refuses, we will know that Illyrio has other designs.”

“You speak wisely, and true,” Dany says. “Very well. I will speak with Groleo.” She rises to meet with the captain, leaving Jon and Jorah behind.

“I do not like the idea of a slave army.”

Jorah shakes his head. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: you may be Rhaegar’s son by birth, but you are Ned Stark’s son in every other sense.”

Jon’s heart twists. He misses his father. “He taught me to be an honorable man. You have taught me many things, Jorah, and in truth, I do think of you as a father...but I can never feel easy about buying and selling another person.”

Jorah lowers his eyes. “You are young yet, Jon. You think the world is still split between good and bad, right and wrong. Someday the distinction may not be so simple.”

“Someday. But not today.”


	29. THEON II

The journey to Sunspear is swift; they are favored with good winds and a shining sun. Theon has not been aboard a ship since Ned Stark took him from Pyke, and the feeling of sailing again stirs something inside of him, wrapping around his heart and squeezing the breath in his lungs. 

_ I was meant to be on a ship, _ he thinks.  _ My blood is salt and my heart is steel, and I am an ironborn, no matter how much time I’ve spent on the greenland.  _

Yet even as he thinks it, he wonders. He was only a child when he left; he grew to manhood in the North. Robb is more a brother to him than Rodrik and Maron ever were, and in many ways, Ned Stark more of a father than his own.

That was always the idea, though. Take Balon Greyjoy’s only heir and raise him to be a greenlander so that when the time comes, he’ll rule the Iron Islands the way the greenlanders want him to rule them. No reaving, raiding, or raping.

His grandfather, Quellon, had been too soft, and his sons had always hated him for it. They felt he was too weak, not a true ironborn, and that was why Balon had named himself king, to make up for his father’s weakness. 

_ He was so eager to prove himself a king that he lost all of his sons for it. All that’s left to him are his women, Asha and my mother. _

“There she is.” The captain’s abrupt announcement pulls Theon from his musings. He looks up to see golden towers shining in the sunlight, one of them so high and so thin that he knows it to be the Spear Tower where the prisoners are kept. The shorter dome beside it is the Tower of the Sun, where the Prince of Dorne and their consort hold court; one chair, it is said, is inlaid with a golden Martell spear while the other bears the Rhoynish sun. A tribute to Princess Nymeria and Prince Mors Martell. 

Queen Lyanna has told them all about Dorne in preparation of their journey. She’s never been herself, but she’s studied Dorne from a distance, and is eager to keep the peace between them. She plans to do this by offering Robb to Arianne Martell and her own daughter, Princess Cassana, to Quentyn Martell. 

_ They won’t offer anyone to me, _ he thinks with a flash of resentment. Not that he  _ wants _ to marry. He enjoys being his own man. But it’s the sentiment behind it. He knows why; it’s in everyone else’s best interests if he remains unwed, because with no wife, he will have no trueborn sons and heirs, and with no heirs, there will no risk of Balon’s rebellious spawn naming themselves kings.

In fact, Theon may well be the last Greyjoy to rule from Pyke, if not the last Greyjoy in the world. None of his uncles have had any children; the only one to marry, Victarion, lost his wife some time ago, he’s told, and as Aeron has become a Drowned Man and Euron has been banished from the Iron Islands, it’s unlikely any of them will get sons on a rock wife anytime soon. 

_ If I do not have a son, the Greyjoy name will be lost forever, and it will be because of me. _

_ Not me, _ he thinks angrily.  _ My father. Rodrik and Maron would have had sons if they’d lived. But they died for our father, and the only way I’ll marry is if Robert himself agrees, and the Drowned God knows he never will. _

“Why so grim, Greyjoy?” Robb teases, clapping a hand on Theon’s back. “Think of all the Dornish girls you’re going to fuck.”

That  _ does _ bring a smile to his face. “Aye. I’ve heard they’re wild in bed.”

“I’ve heard they’re all sorts of things in bed.”

“And you might just get to marry one, you lucky boy,” Theon teases. 

Robb shakes his head. “Can you imagine? A Martell in Winterfell?”

“She’d probably hate it. Too cold.”

“I’ll keep her warm.”

Laughing, the two boys go down to their cabin to pack their things, making ribald jokes all the while. 

.

The captain rows them to shore when they’re close, but before they climb out of the boat, he gives them a warning.

“All Dornishmen mistrust outsiders, and the Martells  _ especially _ ,” he says emphatically. “Do not give them reason to mistrust you.”

The warning leaves a queer feeling in the pit of Theon’s stomach, and sobers him and Robb a little. Where they had been excited only a moment before, they are solemn as they make their way up the wide stone steps to the castle gate. 

“State your business,” the guard says, eyeing them...but his eyes linger on Grey Wind. 

“We are Robb Stark and Theon Greyjoy; my aunt is Queen Lyanna of the Seven Kingdoms, and she wrote to Prince Doran about our coming. These are her letters of introduction.” Robb extends the sheaf of papers, and the guard glances them over. 

“Very well,” he says at last. “Welcome to Sunspear, Robb Stark and Theon Greyjoy. Your things will be taken to your rooms. Princess Arianne will greet you in the Tower of the Sun.”

“Princess Arianne?” Robb asks, raising his eyebrows. “Not Prince Doran?”

“Prince Doran no longer resides in Sunspear,” the guard says in a bored tone. “He has permanently moved to the Water Gardens for his health.”

Theon and Robb exchange looks. 

“And Prince Oberyn? Prince Quentyn?” Robb presses. 

“Prince Oberyn is across the Narrow Sea, and Prince Quentyn at Yronwood. Princess Arianne rules Sunspear in her father’s absence.”

Another guard is already waiting to take them to the Tower of the Sun, so they go. The two boys and Grey Wind follow him, taking in the beauty of the palace. Carved white screens serve as walls, mirrors show every coming and going, and wide hallways echo their every footstep. It occurs to Theon that there is nowhere to truly hide in Sunspear.

_ All Dornishmen mistrust outsiders, _ the captain had said. Theon sees the truth of it now. There is no room for plots and intrigues here; every private word can be heard or seen by anyone, if they know where to go. 

The receiving room is just as wide and open as the rest of the palace; two sides of the room have no walls, and instead open up to the courtyard outside. Against one of the only two walls are the great thrones of renown, and both of them are occupied by women. The one in the Martell seat looks every inch a Martell; her skin is a deep olive, black ringlets cascade down her shoulders. She’s beautiful, with curves enough to drive a man wild. She knows it, too; Theon can tell from the way she sits. 

_ She’ll drive Robb mad if he ever weds her, in all the best ways. _

The woman beside her does not look Dornish, or does not really look like any woman he’s ever seen before. Short hair is pulled back from her face, and she wears the tunic and breeches of a man. She sits like one, too, her legs spread wide as she leans against the arm of the Rhoynish throne.

“Robb Stark and Theon Greyjoy, my lady,” the guard accompanying them announces. 

Robb and Theon sink into bows. 

“Princess Arianne,” Robb says. “It is an honor to meet you. Thank you for receiving us.”

“The queen commanded it, so it must be done,” Arianne says in a bored sort of voice. “She sent you here with proposals of marriage, did she not?”

Robb is visibly stunned by her bluntness, but he smiles after a moment. “She did, my lady.”

“Let me guess...Princess Cassana to my brother Quentyn, and you to me.”

“You have the right of it,” Robb admits. “But I had hoped to—”

“I see no reason why my lord father ought object to Quentyn marrying Princess Cassana,” she interrupts. “It would be a good match, and Quentyn would make a fine consort. But I am afraid you traveled all this way for nothing, Lord Stark, because I cannot marry you.”

Theon and Robb trade confused looks.

“Cannot, my lady?”

“Cannot, and will not. I am my father’s eldest child; in the Dornish custom, that means that when my beloved father, the Prince of Dorne, passes into the next world, I will rule Dorne after him. I can hardly do that from Winterfell, can I?”

Robb is visibly lost for words.

“Besides,” she continues, looking at the woman beside her. The other woman holds out a hand, and Arianne twines her fingers with hers. “I already have a lover.”

Theon can’t help but grow a little hard at that. Two women? One as womanly as they come, the other half a man? Aye,  _ there’s _ a pairing he’d like to see. 

“I believe you’ve already met, Lord Theon,” Arianne continues, her eyes flicking back to Theon’s. “Lady Asha Greyjoy is your sister, is she not?”

If he’d been hard before, he’s soft as moss now. 

True enough, the woman on the other throne  _ is _ Asha. She no longer looks like a fat little boy, but the smirk on her face makes her somehow uglier still. How is it she’s come to Dorne? 

“It’s so good to see you again, little brother.” Asha rises and walks down the steps with the surefootedness of someone who’s been on ships their whole life. She swaggers over to Theon, wrapping him in a hug she knows damn well he doesn’t want. 

“What are you doing here?” he demands.

“Haven’t you heard? I’m Princess Arianne’s lover.” She turns back to Arianne, who’s watching them with amusement. “Mind if I catch up with my brother?”

“Of course.”

Theon is too confused and angered to say anything to Robb; he follows Asha out to a verandah, where a serving girl pours them wine. Asha sits in her chair, one leg resting on the arm, but Theon cannot make himself sit.

“You look angry, little brother.”

“You made us look like fools!” he bellows. “We came here to court Princess Arianne for Robb, and you played us like fools!”

“It’s not my fault you didn’t bother asking if she wanted to marry Robb Stark first.” 

Theon paces up and down, tearing at his hair. “My  _ sister _ is fucking Robb’s intended.”

“His intended, perhaps, but not hers.” She laughs at the look he throws her. “What? You only have yourselves to blame. None of you bothered to find out that the Dornish name the eldest child their heir, regardless of their sex?”

He feels a fool. They’d been so sure of themselves. 

_ Who will Robb marry now? _

“Don’t look so sour-faced. Come, sit, have a drink with me.”

Reluctantly, he takes the seat opposite her. She holds up her cup. “To our reunion.”

Theon clinks his cup with hers, drinking deep. “What  _ are _ you doing here, anyway?” he asks, wiping his mouth.

She shrugs. “Exploring. I’d never been to Dorne before.”

“Where have you been?” he asks, envious and longing.

“Not as many places as I’d like,” she admits. “The farthest I ever got was the Stepstones before Father called me back.”

“He called you back?” Theon asks, another flash of envy and longing overtaking him.  _ He never called me back, not once. He was never allowed, sure, but he never so much as wrote to me. _

“Euron made a muck of things,” she says, and her face suddenly becomes grave. “Raped Victarion’s wife and put a child in her belly. Victarion killed her, and Father had Euron exiled.”

So that was the cause of it. Theon’s uncle had always had a touch of madness to him, but to rape his own brother’s wife…

“So you’re still Lord Stark’s slave.”

He looks sharply up at her. “I’m not a slave.”

“No? You come with Robb Stark to help him find a bride because you  _ wanted _ to?”

“I did,” he says stubbornly. “Robb is my friend. He’d do the same for me.”

She smiles. “You truly believe that?”

“I do.”

“Poor Theon.”

“Don’t poor Theon me,” he snaps. “Robb is my truest friend, my brother.”

Her eyes flash, and the smile fades. “Rodrik and Maron were your brothers.”

“They were,” he agrees. “But they died for Father’s rebellion, and I was sent to live with the Starks because of it. I spent more time in Winterfell than I did with my own family.”

“I know.” There’s something almost accusing about the way she says it. 

“You think it was my choice, to grow up in Winterfell?”

“No. But I think there’s too much wolf in you now. You’ll never be a kraken again.”

“My blood is salt and iron,” he says angrily. “I may have lived amongst wolves, but I’m as much a Greyjoy as I ever was.”

She looks away. “The ironborn don’t see it that way.”

He looks at her, his heart sinking. “Asha...what are you saying?”

She sighs. “God, I didn’t want to be the one to tell you, Theon. Our father’s given up on you. Even if you came back now, he wouldn’t want you. He thinks the greenlanders have made you soft and you’ll never be hard as iron again.”

“He’s wrong,” Theon protests, but his voice catches. Is he? 

She gives him a pitying look. “It’s been years since I saw you, Theon, but I haven’t stopped thinking about you in that time. It was bad enough to lose Rodrik and Maron, but they were fighters and I was ready. To lose you, too…” She shakes her head. “I had always hoped I’d see you again, but in some ways, I wish we’d never crossed paths.”

He licks his lips. “Why?”

She hesitates before touching his hand with hers. “You’re as dead to our father as Rodrik and Maron. He will never recognize you as his son and heir.”

“And whose fault is that?” he snaps, but his voice breaks.

She looks sad and pitying and he hates it. “It’s his. I know. He knows. He mourns you as if you had died.”

“Then let him see me so that he may know I’m alive.”

She shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter. He will always think of you as that little boy who was taken from him. This man before me now? This isn’t his son. He will never see it that way. Do yourself a favor, Theon, and forget all about the Iron Islands. Forget about our father. They’ve all forgotten about you.”

He could strike her for that, but he knows there’s no point. They all gave up on him ever returning, and if and when he does return...will they ever acknowledge him as their lord? Or will they throw him out of Pyke, calling him a traitor and a usurper? 

“The greenlanders will want me to rule when Father dies.” 

“The ironborn will never accept your rule.”

It cuts him deep. “So what? What am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know,” she admits. “Go east. Join the Second Sons. Hide out in Dorne. Live. You will always be an ironborn to the greenlanders, and you will always be a greenlander to the ironborn. Go someplace where you are neither.”

_ She speaks as if it is so easy, to put aside my Greyjoy name and my time at Winterfell to become another person. And for what? My father’s mistakes? Because I was born the youngest son of Balon Greyjoy? _

Lost, he murmurs, “I never asked for any of this.”

Her face is pitying. “I know. No one ever does.”

.

Defeated and without purpose, Theon and Robb sit in Robb’s room, staring into their cups of Dornish red while Grey Wind rests his enormous head on Robb’s lap, gazing up at him with doleful eyes. 

“We came all this way for nothing,” Robb says bitterly. 

“Not for nothing. Quentyn will marry your cousin.”

Robb throws him a look. 

“Sorry.”

“How did it go with your sister?”

Theon lowers his eyes. “She told me not to come back. That they’ve all forgotten me on the Iron Islands.”

“She sounds jealous.”

“Why? What should she be jealous of? She’s the only child my father has left. He loves her as he never would have had my brothers lived and I’d stayed in Pyke.”

“Maybe,” Robb says delicately, “she just doesn’t want you to come back and change all that. What if your father really does love you more and wants you to be his heir, and she’s worried you’ll take that from her?”

He considers it...and then shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s it. I believe she was telling the truth.” He takes a long swallow of wine. “What if my father cares so little for me that he tries to rise up again and your father takes my head?”

“That won’t happen,” Robb says sharply.

“It was always going to.” He sees that now, in a way he couldn’t before. He was dead to his father the day he sailed away. What does it matter if Ned Stark cuts off his head? Balon has a new heir now. 

Robb grips his arm, a fierce look on his face. “It  _ won’t happen.  _ I won’t let it. You’re my brother, Theon, and I’ll never let anyone hurt you, not even my father.”

Something suspiciously like tears prick Theon’s eyes. He downs some wine and clears his throat. “Don’t get all soft on me now, Stark,” he says weakly.

“Soft? I think you’ll find I’m quite hard,” Robb teases. He stands up. “In fact, I’m hard enough to find one of those Dornish girls we’ve been talking about.”

Theon sees the attempt to distract him for what it is...and he appreciates it. 

“Oh really?” he counters, also standing up. “I’m hard enough to find  _ several _ of those girls.”

“As if you could handle more than one girl at a time.”

“Is that a challenge?”

Robb grins. “Aye. Think you’re up to it, Greyjoy?”

Theon grins back. “I’m up for anything, Stark.”


	30. JON XIII

The people of Astapor do not speak Dothraki and can barely understand the Common Tongue, which are the only two languages Jon knows. Though he and Jorah volunteered to secure an audience with a slaver, they are quickly learning that neither of them are equipped for the task.

“No Common,” the wide-eyed slave keeps babbling in such a thick accent it doesn’t sound like Common at all. “Only Valyrian.”

It’s a bastard Valyrian language, one blended with the nearly-forgotten Ghiscari tongue. Though Old Ghis fell five thousand years ago, there are still remnants of it spoken in Slaver’s City. Even one who was fluent in High Valyrian might have trouble understanding this mongrel language. Finally, they have to bring on Captain Groleo, who speaks enough Valyrian to communicate to the slave who his guest is and what she wants.

The slave scurries away, and returns a long time later with a young woman whose skin is darker than the nut brown of the Dothraki, her coarse hair gathered behind her head. She wears barely enough clothes to cover her, but the most prominent article she wears is the collar around her neck.

_ She is a slave, too. _

“Greetings,” she says in perfect Common Tongue, with no trace of an accent whatsoever. “I am Missandei. I come on behalf of Kraznys mo Nakloz, the Good Master who oversees the Unsullied. I understand your mistress is interested in purchasing an army?”

“Our mistress is Daenerys of the House Targaryen,” Jorah tells the slave girl. “She seeks an army to take back the Seven Kingdoms.”

Missandei bows. “We would be honored to assist her in this venture.”

Missandei accompanies Jon, Dany, and Jorah off of the docks and into the Plaza of Pride, where Kraznys mo Nakloz awaits. There had been a light breeze on the docks, but there is no such breeze here; the red stone of the plaza seems to catch the heat and send it back tenfold. Jon feels himself sweating through his leather armor, his belt heavy on his hips. He is grateful for the slave girls bearing a silk awning over them, but even so, it is not enough. 

The Unsullied gathered in the plaza have no silk awning to shield them from the sun, but they seem to feel no heat. They feel nothing, Jon is told. They stand as still as if they were made of stone, unflinching from the sun bearing down on them.

Kraznys mo Nakloz babbles in Valyrian, glancing from Dany to Missandei. Dany’s face is blank throughout it all, only taking on expression when she asks Missandei a question in the Common Tongue. Neither she nor Jon are pleased with the answers.

“They are chosen young, for size and speed and strength,” Missandei says. “They begin their training at five. Every day they train from dawn to dusk, until they have mastered the shortsword, the shield, and the three spears. The training is most rigorous, Your Grace. Only one boy in three survives it. This is well known.” 

Kraznys says something else, and the slave adds, “These Unsullied have been standing here for a day and a night, with no food nor water. They will stand until they drop if Master Kraznys should command it, and when nine hundred and ninety-nine have collapsed to die upon the bricks, the last will stand there still, and never move until his own death claims him. Such is their courage.” 

“I call that madness, not courage,” Jon says unhappily.

“The Good Masters call this obedience. Others may be stronger or quicker or larger than the Unsullied. Some few may even equal their skill with sword and spear and shield. But nowhere between the seas will you ever find any more obedient.” 

“Sheep are obedient,” Jon says stubbornly. 

Dany walks down the line of soldiers to inspect them, and Jon stays close by her side. He wonders what his aunt is thinking, but he has a pretty good guess: most likely, she’s wondering whether or not it’s worth it to buy these slaves. Their loyalty and discipline would be absolute; with such an army, she would conquer even the fiercest of enemies. 

_ But is that what she wants?  _

“Why do you cut them?” Dany asks when she returns from her inspection. “Whole men are stronger than eunuchs, I have always heard.”

“A eunuch who is cut young will never have the brute strength of one of your Westerosi knights, this is true. A bull is strong as well, but bulls die every day in the fighting pits. A girl of nine killed one not three days past in Jothiel’s Pit. The Unsullied have something better than strength. They have discipline. We fight in the fashion of the Old Empire. They are the lockstep legions of Old Ghis come again, absolutely obedient, absolutely loyal, and utterly without fear.” 

“Even the bravest men fear death and maiming,” Jon points out.

“The Unsullied are not men. Death means nothing to them, and maiming less than nothing.” 

Kraznys stops before a thickset man and whips him sharply across the cheek. Jon gasps, but the eunuch does not so much as blink.

Dany lays a hand on Kraznys’s arm before he can raise the whip again. “Tell the Good Master that I see how strong his Unsullied are, and how bravely they suffer pain.” 

Kraznys chuckles when he hears her words in Valyrian.

“The Good Master says that was not courage, Your Grace. He begs you attend this carefully.” 

Kraznys moves to the next eunuch in line, a towering youth with red hair and blue eyes. The eunuch kneels, unsheathing his blade, and offers it up hilt first. At a word, the eunuch stands, and Kraznys mo Nakloz cuts off his nipple. It so disgusts Jon that he sways on the spot. Jorah grips his arm, steadying him. Beneath the sweat and flush of heat, he looks ill, too.

“What is he doing?” Dany demands as the blood runs down the man’s chest. 

“This will do him no great harm. Men have no need of nipples, eunuchs even less so. They feel no pain, you see.” 

“How can that be?” Dany demands. 

“The wine of courage. It is no true wine at all, but made from deadly nightshade, bloodfly larva, black lotus root, and many secret things. They drink it with every meal from the day they are cut, and with each passing year feel less and less. It makes them fearless in battle. Nor can they be tortured. Your secrets are safe with the Unsullied. You may set them to guard your councils and even your bedchamber, and never a worry as to what they might overhear. In Yunkai and Meereen, eunuchs are often made by removing a boy’s testicles, but leaving the penis. Such a creature is infertile, yet often still capable of erection. Only trouble can come of this. We remove the penis as well, leaving nothing. The Unsullied are the purest creatures on the earth.” 

Kraznys smiles at Dany and asks a question, which Missandei translates. “I have heard that in the Sunset Kingdoms men take solemn vows to keep chaste and father no children, but live only for their duty. Is it not so?” 

“It is,” Jon says, thinking of his own vows. “There are many such orders. The maesters of the Citadel, the septons and septas who serve the Seven, the silent sisters of the dead, the Kingsguard and the Night’s Watch...” 

“Men were not made to live thus. Their days are a torment of temptation, and no doubt most succumb to their baser selves. Not so our Unsullied. They are wed to their swords in a way that your Sworn Brothers cannot hope to match. No woman can ever tempt them, nor any man.” 

“There are other ways to tempt men, besides the flesh,” Jon argues. He mislikes this place, and these people. 

“Men, yes, but not Unsullied. Plunder interests them no more than rape. They own nothing but their weapons. We do not even permit them names.” 

“No names?” Dany asks in outrage. “Can that be what the Good Master said? They have no names?” 

“It is so, Your Grace. All Unsullied boys are given new names every day--Grey Worm, Red Flea, Black Rat. All their names are such. It reminds them that by themselves they are vermin. The name disks are thrown in an empty cask at duty’s end, and each dawn plucked up again at random.” 

Jon cannot believe this. “More madness. How can any man possibly remember a new name every day?” 

“Those who cannot are culled in training, along with those who cannot run all day in full pack, scale a mountain in the black of night, walk across a bed of coals, or slay an infant.” 

“An infant?” Dany asks in disgust. “Whose infants do they slay?” 

“To complete his training, an Unsullied must go to the slave marts with a silver mark, find some wailing newborn, and kill it before its mother’s eyes. In this way, we make certain that there is no weakness left in them.” 

Dany reaches for Jon’s arm, and he feels the full weight of her leaning on him for support. He keeps his arm strong, but in truth, he’s half a heartbeat from collapsing himself. 

“You take a babe from its mother’s arms, kill it as she watches, and pay for her pain with a silver coin?” 

“The silver coin is not paid to the baby’s mother, but to its owner,” Missandei explains solemnly. “But my master says the dogs are harder for them. They give each boy a puppy on the day that he is cut. At the end of the first year, he is required to strangle it. Any who cannot are killed, and fed to the surviving dogs. It makes for a good strong lesson.” 

Jon thinks of Ghost and wants to throw up. He already misses his direwolf, who he knows is in good hands at home; how can anyone strangle their most loyal companion?

“The Good Master has said that these eunuchs cannot be tempted with coin or flesh,” Dany manages, “but if some enemy of mine should offer them freedom for betraying me...” 

“They would kill him out of hand and bring you his head,” Missandei translates. “Other slaves may steal and hoard up silver in hopes of buying freedom, but an Unsullied would not take it even if offered it as a gift. They have no life outside their duty. They are soldiers, and that is all.” 

“It is soldiers I need,” Dany admits. 

“It is well you came to Astapor, then. My master wishes to know how large an army you wish to buy.” 

“How many Unsullied do you have to sell?” Dany counters.

“Eight thousand fully trained and available at present. We sell them only by the unit. By the thousand or the century. Such wonders do not come cheaply. In Yunkai and Meereen, slave swordsmen can be had for less than the price of their swords, but Unsullied are the finest foot in all the world, and each represents many years of training. They are like Valyrian steel, folded over and over and hammered for years on end, until they are stronger and more resilient than any metal on earth.” 

“I know of Valyrian steel,” Jon says, remembering his father’s greatsword, Ice. But he wonders what kind of organization the Unsullied have once they have been sold. “Ask the Good Master if the Unsullied have their own officers.” 

“You must set your own officers over them. We train them to obey, not to think.” 

“And their gear?” he continues. 

“Sword, shield, spear, sandals, and quilted tunic are included. They will wear such armor as you wish, but you must provide it.” 

Jon can think of no other questions, and a look from Dany shows she has none, either. She turns back to Kraznys mo Nakloz and his slave girl. “I must consider carefully.” 

The slaver shrugs at the translation. 

“My master urges you to decide quickly, as there are many interested buyers.”

“Thank the Good Master for his patient kindness,” Dany says, “and tell him that I will think on all I learned here.” She walks back across the plaza, towards the docks where their ships await. 

“Bricks and blood built Astapor,” Jorah says once the slave Missandei can no longer hear them, “and bricks and blood her people.” 

“What is that?” Dany asks, looking curiously up at him. 

“An old rhyme a maester taught me, when I was a boy. I never knew how true it was. The bricks of Astapor are red with the blood of the slaves who make them.” 

“I can well believe that,” says Dany. 

“Then we should leave this place before your heart turns to brick as well,” Jon urges. “Sail this very night, on the evening tide.” 

But Dany shakes her head sadly. “When I leave Astapor it must be with an army.” 

“There are sellswords in Pentos and Myr and Tyrosh you can hire. A man who kills for coin has no honor, but at least they are no slaves. Find your army there, I beg you.” 

“My brother visited Pentos, Myr, Braavos, near all the Free Cities. The magisters and archons fed him wine and promises, but his soul was starved to death. A man cannot sup from the beggar’s bowl all his life and stay a man. I had my taste in Qarth, that was enough. I will not come to Pentos bowl in hand.” 

“Better to come a beggar than a slaver,” he argues. 

Dany’s eyes flash with anger. “Do you know what it is like to be sold? I do. My brother sold me to Khal Drogo for the promise of a golden crown. Well, Drogo crowned him in gold, though not as he had wished, and I...my sun-and-stars made a queen of me, but if he had been a different man, it might have been much otherwise. Do you think I have forgotten how it felt to be afraid?” 

Jon is shamed at her words, but all the same, he knows that this is not right. “I did not mean to give offense.” 

She sighs, patting his arm. “Only lies offend me, never honest counsel. Lies, and these Astapori. Shall I buy eight thousand brick eunuchs with dead eyes that never move, who kill suckling babes and strangle their own dogs? They don’t even have names.”

“Shall I tell Captain Groleo to make ready to sail on the evening tide?” Jorah asks.

“No,” Dany sighs, wilting. “I want to sail now, not on the tide, I want to sail far and fast and never look back. But I can’t, can I? There are eight thousand men for sale, and I must find some way to buy them.” 

.

When they return to the ship, Jon goes with Dany to her cabin, where the dragons climb all over them.

“You’re too big for that now, sweetling,” Dany says, but Viserion climbs onto her shoulders as he did when he was still a hatchling. Giggling, she sits in a chair to better support him.

Rhaegal is equally naughty, and Jon is glad for his leather tunic as the dragon sinks sharp claws into his back.

“They have been wild while you were gone,  _ Khaleesi _ ,” Irri says. “Viserion clawed splinters from the door, do you see? And Drogon made to escape when Doreah came in to feed them. When I grabbed his tail to hold him back, he turned and bit me.” 

“Did any of them try to burn their way free?” 

“No,  _ Khaleesi _ . Drogon breathed his fire, but in the empty air.” 

Dany kisses the bite mark on Irri’s hand. “I’m sorry he hurt you. Dragons are not meant to be locked up in a small ship’s cabin.” 

“Dragons are like horses in this,” Irri says. “And riders, too. The horses scream below,  _ Khaleesi _ , and kick at the wooden walls. I hear them. And Jhiqui says the old women and the little ones scream too, when you are not here. They do not like this water cart. They do not like the black salt sea.” 

“I know,” Dany says. “I do, I know.” 

“My  _ khaleesi _ is sad?” 

“Yes,” Dany admits. “Leave me now, both of you. I want to be alone. To think.” 

Jon sets down Rhaegal, who scuttles off when Jon tosses a piece of meat, and he and Irri leave Dany alone with the dragons. He is unsettled by all he saw today, and it’s a relief to find Doreah in the hold. She’s wet and waiting for him, and he loses himself in the feel of her lithe body around his.

When they lie back, cooled by their sweat and pleasantly exhausted, he tells her all that he saw in the Plaza of Pride.

“I have heard many stories of the Unsullied,” she admits. “But I never quite believed them. I always wondered how they could mould men into the Unsullied.”

“It’s horrible. They take away everything that makes them feel, everything that makes them men. Why would they do that?”

Doreah shrugs. “For the very reason Daenerys is looking at them, I suppose...to ensure victory.”

.

It’s dusk when Dany finally emerges from her cabin. Jon and Jorah join her as they watch night fall over the city of Astapor, the city filling with light as the free citizens take their pleasure from dining at each other’s houses, going to the fighting pits, amusing themselves the way that only the obscenely wealthy can. Jon wonders if the Unsullied are still standing in the Plaza of Pride, awaiting the command to sleep. 

“Your Grace, might I speak frankly?” Jorah asks. 

“Say what you will, ser.” 

“When Aegon the Dragon stepped ashore in Westeros, the kings of Vale and Rock and Reach did not rush to hand him their crowns. If you mean to sit his Iron Throne, you must win it as he did, with steel and dragonfire. And that will mean blood on your hands before the thing is done.” 

“The blood of my enemies I will shed gladly,” Dany says. “The blood of innocents is another matter. Eight thousand Unsullied they would offer me. Eight thousand dead babes. Eight thousand strangled dogs.” 

“Your Grace, I saw King’s Landing after the Sack. Babes were butchered that day as well, and old men, and children at play. More women were raped than you can count. There is a savage beast in every man, and when you hand that man a sword or spear and send him forth to war, the beast stirs. The scent of blood is all it takes to wake him. Yet I have never heard of these Unsullied raping, nor putting a city to the sword, nor even plundering, save at the express command of those who lead them. Brick they may be, as you say, but if you buy them henceforth the only dogs they’ll kill are those you want dead. And you do have some dogs you want dead, as I recall.” 

Dany is quiet for a long moment before speaking. “Viserys would have bought as many Unsullied as he had the coin for. But you once said, Ser Jorah, that I was like my brother. Rhaegar led free men into battle, not slaves. I have heard it said he dubbed his squires himself, and made many other knights as well. Tell me, then—when he touched a man on the shoulder with his sword, what did he say? ‘Go forth and kill the weak’? Or ‘Go forth and defend them’? At the Trident, those brave men Viserys spoke of who died beneath our dragon banners—did they give their lives because they believed in Rhaegar’s cause, or because they had been bought and paid for?” 

Jon hesitates. “Dany...all you say is true. But Rhaegar lost on the Trident. He lost the battle, he lost the war, he lost the kingdom, and he lost his life. His blood swirled downriver with the rubies from his breastplate, and Robert the Usurper rode over his corpse to steal the Iron Throne. Rhaegar fought valiantly, Rhaegar fought nobly, Rhaegar fought honorably. And Rhaegar died.”


	31. LYANNA VII

The bells ring slowly and loudly, each peal announcing the passing of Jon Arryn.

_ Dead, _ they seem to say.  _ Dead, dead, dead, dead. _

Robert walks slowly up the steps to the sept, his movements slow and weighed down.

_ Jon was like a father to him, _ Lyanna remembers.  _ He raised Robert and defended him, and he served as his Hand these last twenty years.  _

She feels sorry for Robert, she truly does. 

Behind them, Lysa Arryn weeps hysterically as Ned leads her up the steps, uncomplaining despite the way she clutches onto him. They had sent a rider up the Kingsroad to bring her back to King’s Landing. Catelyn had elected to continue onto Riverrun, fearing for her father, but she had sent back her deep condolences. 

Lysa’s wailing is nearly enough to drive Lyanna mad, but she tries to be charitable. After what Ned had confided in her the other day, she feels suddenly very sorry for Lysa Arryn. The poor woman has had a hard life, and now she’s lost her husband and will soon lose her father. That sickly little boy of hers is all she’ll have left. 

They had to leave Robin at the Red Keep; it’s little-known the boy suffers from the shaking sickness, but Robert had told her in confidence years ago. Apparently his fits have been terrible since he received the news, and only the funeral itself has dragged Lysa from his side. 

_ Would that she had remained behind. _

Jon’s body is laid out for all to see, the painted stones on his eyes an offering to the Seven. The High Septon speaks of Jon Arryn, praising his life and deeds, but few can hear over Lysa’s sobbing. 

It isn’t only her sobs that disrupt the day’s solemnity. 

When the body has been taken away (put on a ship, Lyanna knows, where the Silent Sisters will see it taken to the Eyrie), the courtiers mingle and offer their condolences. 

“I cannot understand what happened,” Ned says softly to his sister. Robert is off to the side with his small council, and the children have abandoned the gloominess inside for the sunlight outside. “He wasn’t feeling well when I left him, but he didn’t seem...about to  _ die. _ ”

“Maester Pycelle says the illness took him suddenly.”

“You believe that?”

“I believe Pycelle is even older than Jon Arryn and prone to mistakes.” She glances at her brother. “Why? You think it wasn’t an illness?”

Ned opens his mouth...but he never gets the words out, because at that moment, Lysa storms across the chamber and slaps both him and Lyanna across the faces.

The room goes into an uproar as the Kingsguard vault across the guests to restrain Lysa, who looks madder than Lyanna has ever seen her. Her cheek stings from Lysa’s slap, and her knees threaten to buckle with shock.

“My queen,” Ser Barristan says urgently, “are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“What is the meaning of this?” Robert rumbles. 

“They killed my husband!” Lysa shrieks. 

The court is deadly silent now, watching them with wide eyes and bated breath.

“You accuse us of killing your husband?” Lyanna demands, anger replacing her shock. “Jon Arryn raised my brother from a child and has always given my husband good counsel. Lysa, you are maddened with grief.”

“Your brother was the last person to see him that night, besides his squire!” Lysa shrieks, fighting against Jaime Lannister and Mandon Moore, who both have her in an iron grip. “He poisoned him, I know it!”

“Lord Arryn died of  _ illness _ ,” Maester Pycelle explains kindly.

“Poison! It was poison!”

“Enough!” Robert roars, loud enough and stern enough to make Lysa still. “Gods, woman! What led you to say these things?”

A crazed smile takes over her face. “He knew their secret. He was going to tell.”

“What secret?”

Lyanna realizes what she’s going to say a beat too late.

“Robert,” she says sharply, afraid, but already the words are coming out of Lysa’s mouth.

“He knew about  _ your wife’s son _ !”

Lyanna grips Ned’s arm so hard she’s like to break it. It doesn’t matter. They’ll be lucky if they walk out of here with their heads.

“She’s mad,” she says, but her voice sounds fearful even to her own ears. “Crazed with grief. Maester Pycelle, perhaps some milk of the poppy would soothe her nerves—”

“You think you can silence me with more of your lies? Enough! I know the truth! I know that you’ve been hiding your son with Rhaegar! And now everyone else knows it, too!” She whirls her head from side to side, shouting at the court. “Ned Stark’s bastard is not his own! He’s the son of Rhaegar and your precious queen, and he’s in Essos even now, helping his aunt build an army to take back the Seven Kingdoms!”

Lyanna’s heart is pounding so hard she can barely hear. Her hand is still gripping Ned’s arm, and when she turns her eyes to Robert, she can see the slap of surprise across his face. 

_ He knows, _ she realizes with horror.  _ He knows that what she says is true. _

“Out,” Robert says hoarsely; and then, shouting, “ ** _OUT!_ ** ”

The whole of the court streams out of the sept, throwing glances over their shoulders. The Kingsguard take Lysa, who goes without resistance now that she’s said her piece. After what feels like an age, it is only Robert and Lyanna and Ned. 

_ He’s going to kill us, _ she thinks.  _ He’s going to smash my head against the walls until the sept runs red with my blood.  _

Robert paces up and down like a restless creature in a cage. 

“Is it true?”

Lyanna cannot find the words to speak, not until Robert looks at her and demands, “Is it  _ true _ ?”

“Half of it,” she whispers, her hand still gripping Ned’s arm. She’s going to leave bruises, she’s sure. “It is true that Jon Snow is my son...but we would never have hurt Jon Arryn.”

“Did he know?” Robert demands.

“No. Or if he did, he said nothing.”

“Then how did he die?” 

“I don’t know. Truly, I don’t.”

Robert looks as if he’s about to kill them...and then his shoulders sag, and he looks old and tired and grieved. “I should have known. I should have known my honorable brother in arms would never have gotten a bastard on any woman, even if we were at war.”

Ned clears his throat. “Robert...all I did, I did for love of my sister.”

“Quiet,” Robert says, and some of the fight returns. “This bastard, this Jon Snow...why did you lie to me?”

Tears spring to Lyanna’s eyes. “You would have killed him.”

Robert does not deny it, and that, somehow, breaks her heart a little more. 

“I offered,” Ned says quietly. “I offered to raise him as my own so that Lyanna could return to you.”

“And all the while, you plotted against me.”

“No,” both siblings say at once.

“I swear I did not...go into our marriage plotting against you,” she says weakly. “I thought to live and die by your side. But...when Melisandre came to me—”

“That bloody red priestess,” he growls. “I should never have let her start sniffing around you. Varys warned me she was bedding you, and I turned a blind eye to her as you’ve turned a blind eye to so many of my...indiscretions. I thought she’d be as effectual at turning you to her religion as Thoros of Myr was to me. But if I’d known she was whispering treason in your ear…”

“There is something greater at work here than you or me,” Lyanna tries to tell him. “Daenerys Targaryen—”

“Do not speak that whore’s name in my presence!” he roars. “Do not try to tell me there is some greater  _ purpose _ ! You lied to me and conspired against me, and now  _ Rhaegar’s whelp _ is gathering an army to supplant me! I warned Jon Arryn, I warned him that the Targaryen bitch would bring all forty thousand of her Dothraki to our shores! I should have sent more assassins. Better yet, I should have come up to Winterfell and killed that bastard myself when I had the chance.”

“Robert, please—”

Robert takes one of the chairs and hurls it across the room, screaming. Lyanna has seen her husband in a rage before, but this is the first time she’s truly afraid. When he moves towards her, Ned pushes her behind him. 

“Robert, I beg you, do not hurt her!” Ned shouts. “Hurt me if you will, but leave Lyanna alone. It was my idea to take Jon as my own.” 

Robert looks as if he could tear Ned’s head from his shoulders, but he stops in his tracks. 

“I want you both out by nightfall. You, and every person still loyal to you. If you’re still in the city tonight, I’ll have my guards put you to the sword. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Ned says, but Lyanna feels fresh tears spring to her eyes.

“Cassie,” she manages, her voice breaking. “My little girl…”

Robert’s eyes darken. “You lost the right to call her yours when you chose to help Rhaegar’s bastard.  _ Out. _ Before I change my mind and put your heads on pikes.”

She wants to protest; Cassie is her daughter, after all, but Ned is already hauling her out of the sept.

“Ned,” she sobs. “I want to see my daughter, I want to see—”

“You will,” he promises. “Another time. But not now, Lya. Now, we must go, or you won’t live to see either of your children ever again.”

.

Lyanna and her ladies throw everything important into trunks that serving boys and grooms carry down to the stables. Her ladies are packing more than Lyanna; they have many fine dresses they bought in the capital, family jewels and trinkets from lovers. 

Lyanna only packs the clothes she knows she’ll need, and the only trinkets she takes are things gifted to her by Cassie when she was little, poorly carved figurines and jewelry she made herself. Lyanna would never part with those things.

She gives her ladies a choice: stay here and swear they knew nothing of their queen’s treason, or come north with Lyanna and wait out the storm. Every single one of them chooses to stay by her side. 

“We’re made of sterner stuff than these southerners,” Wynafryd says haughtily. “We won’t abandon our queen when the going gets tough.”

“You were kind to me when no one else was, Your Grace,” Fat Walda agrees. “You’ve been kind to all of us. We couldn’t abandon you now, when you need us.”

“You can leave at any time,” she stresses. “You are not beholden to me.”

“Begging your pardon, my queen,” Dacey says, a flash of Bear Island steel in her tone, “but House Mormont has been loyal to House Stark for hundreds of years, and we aren’t about to break faith now.”

They turn back to their packing, and Lyanna pulls Melisandre aside.

“Bring Ros to me,” she urges. “I promised her a place as my lady-in-waiting; I don’t know if she’ll want it anymore, but she should have the choice to leave with me.”

Melisandre bows my head. “As my queen commands.”

.

She returns less than an hour later--without Ros.

“She said she cannot come now,” Melisandre reports. “She said she has something she has to take care of here first, and then she will join you.”

Lyanna cannot hide her disappointment. She had so wanted Ros to come with her, and to leave this horrible place behind.

“I wonder what she has to take care of here,” she muses aloud. “What could be more important than this?”

“The Lord of Light is not finished working through her,” Melisandre says vaguely. “You will see her again; I have seen it in the flames.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

Lyanna hesitates. “You’re not...are you angry? That I’ve...that she…?”

Melisandre only smiles. “You mean, am I jealous that I now share your affections with another woman? No, Your Grace. Total fidelity to one person is a western idea; in many places in the world, one person may have multiple lovers without fear of jealousy. Besides, you know what I told you when I first came into your service.”

Lyanna remembers. “You said you would only live as long as the Lord of Light needed you.”

“I’m going to die in this strange country,” Melisandre agrees. “Before you. I am glad you have found another companion.”

Lyanna squeezes her hands. “You always say ‘before you’. When?”

“You will know when the time is upon us.” Melisandre kisses her cheek, her lips hot as a fireside. “Let us go, my queen. Your kingly husband has commanded you to leave before nightfall, and you will want to be on the road long before that. The night is dark and full of terrors.”


	32. SANSA IV

Sansa cannot stop weeping as they pack. She and Jeyne try to put all of their things in the trunks, lamenting as they do so that it was so much easier to pack for the journey here. They’ve made a home here, and as they take down tapestries and strip the bed, Sansa cannot help but feel that she’s losing it. 

In the other room, she can hear Septa Mordane scolding Arya for not folding her things properly.

“It doesn’t matter!” Arya bellows. “King Robert’s going to  _ kill _ us if we don’t leave in time!”

Sansa bursts into a fresh wave of tears, throwing her arms around Lady and burying her face in the direwolf’s neck. Jeyne kneels beside her, rubbing her back. 

“It will be alright,” Jeyne says weakly.

“I don’t understand why we have to go,” Sansa sobs. She still doesn’t. She knows her Aunt Lyanna did something terrible, and Father had kept it a secret, but now the secret is out and King Robert is furious. He’s sending them all away, and he’s threatened to kill any Stark remaining in King’s Landing after nightfall.

“I haven’t done anything  _ wrong _ ,” she insists. 

“I know.”

Septa Mordane finds them like that, crouched on the ground and crying.

“Quickly, girls!” she cries. “Night approaches!”

It’s still early afternoon outside, but Sansa knows the septa doesn’t want to take any chances. They still have to load the wagons and ready the horses, and it’s slow going from the Red Keep to the Kingsroad. Wiping her eyes, she gets up to pack the last of her things.

The worst thing, she thinks bitterly, is that she doesn’t even have time to say goodbye to Edric. Their courtship has been brief but sweet, and though he has barely so much as kissed her cheek, she is sure that she loves him. It is as the red woman said: her fortune lies where the stars fall. 

Will he even want to see her again? Will he ever forgive her for her aunt’s crimes...whatever they may be? 

Several times, she tries to ask Father why they have to leave, but all he says is, “I’ll tell you later.” He’s pale-faced and more frantic than she’s ever seen him, and that worries her. Whatever Aunt Lyanna has done must have been bad.

.

They’re at the stables, saddling their mounts and making ready to leave. 

“What about Robb and Theon?” Bran asks. “They’re still in Dorne.”

“We’ll send word on the road. They’ll be safe in Dorne.”

“Nobody’s safe in Dorne,” Arya argues.

“They will be,” Aunt Lyanna says. “Prince Doran is a friend of mine.”

_ Even now? _ Sansa wonders.  _ Even after whatever you did? _

She’s waiting for the stable boy to give her a boost into her saddle when a pale-haired figure comes barreling into the yard.

_ Edric, _ she realizes, her heart lifting. 

He sees her and makes a beeline for her, cutting through her father’s men and guards to reach her.

“Sansa,” he gasps, breathless. “I was afraid you had already left…”

“We’re about to. I wasn’t sure I’d see you again,” she confides softly.

“I wasn’t sure, either,” he admits. “But once I heard you were leaving, I knew I had to come. Sansa...I know you have to go, but before you do, I have to tell you that I love you. I know we haven’t known each other long, but it’s as if I was struck by lightning the moment I first saw you. I think about you when I wake and I think about you when I go to sleep. My dreams are all of you, and I tell you now, Sansa Stark, that it is my dearest hope to marry you someday. If,” he adds, suddenly bashful, “if you will have me.”

Happy tears fill her eyes. “Of course I will have you. Nothing would give me greater pleasure.”

His shoulders sag in relief, and Sansa is so happy that she kisses him for true. The touch of his lips is awkward at first, but sweet when he presses back and their mouths slot together just so. This is how she’s always imagined kisses to be, how she’s imagined her first kiss to be.

Well, maybe not surrounded by her family and her father’s household, with the threat of death looming above them all, but Edric is brave and gentle and strong, and he wants to marry her, and someday, he’s going to. 

When they pull back, smiling and shy, he promises to write to her, and she promises to do the same. He helps her onto her horse and stays in the yard, watching her leave until they cannot see each other.

.

The afternoon sun is low in the sky by the time they pass through the city gates. Father makes them ride hard, leaving the city well behind. Sansa hates riding, and she especially hates riding beyond a leisurely pace, but she knows better than to complain. Queen Lyanna and her ladies are all riding hard, too, with little care for their finery as they kick up mud and dust. 

They even ride into the night, lighting torches to see. Sansa and her siblings are rubbing their eyes and yawning by the time Father allows them to stop and make camp.

“Can’t we stay at an inn?” Sansa whines, tired from the hours in the saddle. 

“We don’t know who we can trust, love,” Father says sadly, lifting her out of her saddle. 

The wolves go out hunting while Father’s men erect tents and Aunt Lyanna’s ladies set up bedrolls. Summer and Nymeria drag a fallen stag back to camp, which some of the men say is a fell omen, but they are too hungry to brook much complaint. 

When they’ve had their dinner, Father and Aunt Lyanna summon Sansa, Arya, and Bran into Father’s tent. Sansa just wants to go to bed, sure that she’ll have to wake up early in the morning to keep riding, but the grave looks on Father and Aunt Lyanna’s faces give her pause.

“There is something I have to tell you children. It will not be an easy thing,” Father warns them. 

“Tell us,” Arya urges. “We can handle it.”

Father sighs heavily. “The truth of it is, your brother Jon...he’s not your brother.”

Sansa is sure she misheard, but Aunt Lyanna has tears streaming from her eyes. “He’s my son,” she explains to her nieces and nephew. “You all know what happened to me? When Prince Rhaegar stole me away from my family?”

The children exchange uneasy looks, but they nod. Of course they know. How could they not? 

“Rhaegar locked me away in a tower, and in that tower, I gave birth to our son,” she says quietly. “Your father found me there, with my son. Rhaegar had died by then, and Robert was king, and we knew he would want me back. We knew, too, that he would never let Rhaegar’s son live. Your father offered to take my son as his and raise him at Winterfell, where no one need ever know the truth of his birth. I loved my son, and I only wanted him to be safe, so I said yes. When we rode north to King’s Landing, your father claimed my son as his baseborn son, Jon Snow. No one ever suspected the truth; not even Robert.”

“Jon...is our cousin?” Arya asks, her face drawn in confusion.

“He is,” Father confirms. “He is your cousin, and Cassie’s older brother.”

Sansa doesn’t have to look to know how stung Arya is. She had always been close to Jon, had always loved him better than anyone...and to learn he isn’t even her true brother…

“Does Mother know?” Sansa asks, her eyes widening. 

“She knows,” Father says. “One of a few who did.”

“Is that...is that why we had to leave? Because King Robert learned the truth?”

Aunt Lyanna breathes deeply. “That is part of it. It wasn’t just that Jon is my son...it was also that...did Old Nan ever tell you about the Others?”

That takes Sansa somewhat by surprise, but Bran says, “Yes, of course.”

“They weren’t just stories. The Others were real; they still are. When the Last Hero defeated them, he only drove them back to the Land of Always Winter, but he didn’t kill them. Bran the Builder and the Children of the Forest built the Wall to keep the Others away from us.”

“And secured it with magic,” Bran asserts.

“And secured it with magic,” Aunt Lyanna agrees. “But you see...the Others are coming back. And we will need another hero, a prince that was promised, to defeat them for true this time.”

“What does this have to do with Jon?” Arya asks.

“Rhaegar believed that one of his children was the prince that was promised,” Aunt Lyanna says. “At first, I thought it was Jon, but now...when Jon left, he didn’t just go traveling to Essos. I sent him to Vaes Dothrak, to find the last Targaryens. Viserys died the night after he arrived, but Daenerys survived the death of her husband and her son and the loss of her  _ khalasar _ to walk through fire and hatch dragons from stone. She is the prince that was promised, the Last Hero who will deliver us from darkness, and we need her to defeat the Great Other once and for all.”

Sansa’s head is reeling. “But...you’re married to Robert…”

“I am. Or was. But this is beyond loyalty to my husband. If the Others get past the Wall, they won’t care who we’re married to or who sits the Iron Throne. They kill indiscriminately. Which is why we need someone who will unite the Seven Kingdoms and march the greatest army Westeros has ever seen north to defeat them. Daenerys is that person, and Jon must help her.”

“She really hatched dragons?” Arya asks with wide eyes.

Aunt Lyanna smiles. “She really did.”

Arya looks excited, but Sansa cannot share her sister’s enthusiasm. Has her aunt lost her senses? She truly believes the Others are coming back? 

“So...King Robert made us leave because he found out you were helping Jon? And Daenerys?” Bran asks slowly.

“Yes.”

Bran considers this. “If Jon and Daenerys do come back...King Robert will never bend the knee to them.”

“No,” Aunt Lyanna agrees softly. “He won’t.”

“And they won’t bend the knee to him.”

“No.”

Bran looks troubled. “So...they’ll try to kill each other.”

“I’m afraid so.”

Bran looks distressed. “May I go to bed now?”

“Yes,” Father says wearily. “We should all go to bed. We’ll leave at first light.”

Sansa is the last to leave, and she casts her father a withering look. “I will  _ never _ forgive you,” she vows. “For any of this.” She storms off, trying not to feel too guilty about the miserable look on his face.


	33. JON XIV

Dany takes another day to think over her decision and to wander the city of Astapor; this time, without Kraznys and his slaves. She only takes Jon, Jorah, and her bloodriders. Jon is glad the slaver and slaves are not there, but at the same time, he cannot deny that he misses the silk awning. It’s unbearably hot, and he thinks more than once of simply turning back.

“What’s this?” Dany asks, making for a walkway along the shore.

Crosses line the walkway, and hanging from them are bloodied men--still alive, but just barely. Jon wonders if his stomach will ever stop turning in this place. 

“The Walk of Punishment,” Jorah tells her. “It is a warning.”

“To whom?” she asks, peering up at the men.

“To other slaves who are contemplating doing whatever these slaves did.”

“Give me your water,” Dany orders, and Jon hands over his water skin. 

“ _ Khaleesi _ , this man has been sentenced to death,” Jorah tells her, but she ignores him, choosing instead to climb up on the platform. She tries to offer the water to the slave...but he turns his head away, his lips forming soundless words.

Dany climbs down, walking briskly away from the Walk of Punishment and back towards the docks. 

“The Unsullied...once I own these men—”

“They are not men,” Jon says hollowly.

“Once I own an army of slaves,” she corrects, “what will I be?”

“Do you think these slaves will have better lives serving Kraznys and men like him, or serving you?” Jorah counters, and he has a point there. Dany will be good to the Unsullied and never mistreat them.

_ Yet she will be their owner all the same. _

A child with a ball darts in front of Dany, smiling shyly up at her. Dany smiles back, following when she sees that the little girl wants her to. She’s a wretched looking thing, in Jon’s opinion, but he knows how dearly his aunt loves wretched things. They follow the little girl to the flat surface of the dock, where she stoops to roll the ball towards Dany. Smiling, Dany picks it up and prepares to roll it back, but the girl motions for her to twist the two halves of the wooden ball. Dany does so--and at that moment, a hand grabs her wrist. The other hand holds a knife.

Aggo and Rakharo both tackle the man, knocking Dany to the ground. Jon bends down to help her.

“The ball!” a woman screams behind them--in the Common Tongue. “The ball, look at the ball!”

Jon does, and sees that a horrible green creature unfurls from within. 

He calls to Aggo and Rakharo, and the bloodriders release the man. The stranger strikes quick as a viper; his knife comes down on the creature, pinning it to the dock before it can strike. It twitches a few times before going still.

“A manticore,” the man says. He looks up at the little girl...but she is long gone.

“An assassin,” Jon says, shaken. 

Jorah orders the Dothraki to find the little girl; they run off to do so, hands on their  _ arakhs _ .

Dany stands up with Jon’s help, peering at the strange man, who wipes the manticore from his knife. The woman who shouted is at his side, murmuring to him, but they both look up when Dany approaches them.

“I owe you my life,” she says gratefully. “Who are you?”

The man gives her a grim smile as he puts away his knife. “I am Oberyn Martell, and this is my paramour, Ellaria Sand.”

“Martell?” Dany repeats, bewildered. 

Oberyn Martell’s eyes flicker to Jon. “You are Jon Snow?”

“I am,” he says, just as bewildered as Dany.

Oberyn bows his head. “Your mother asked me to come find you.”

“My mother?” Could she really have sent a Martell after him? “Why?”

“My family has quietly plotted vengeance for my sister Elia and her children these many years. When your mother wrote to my brother and revealed her plans to restore a Targaryen to the throne, he agreed at once. She felt that I could be of some help to you. Here; her letter, if you don’t believe me.” He extends a roll of parchment, and when Jon unfurls it, he sees his mother’s script, confirming all that Oberyn has said. He shows it to Dany and nods.

“How did you know to find me here?” Dany asks. “We had not planned to stop at Astapor.”

“In truth, it was a happy accident,” says Ellaria Sand, a woman of surpassing beauty. “We were sailing east to Qarth, where Queen Lyanna says she last heard from you. We stopped in Astapor to replenish our stores.”

Oberyn sinks to his knee, Ellaria doing the same.

“Your Grace,” he says solemnly, “we have been waiting for this day a long time. House Martell is yours, and where House Martell goes, Dorne will surely follow.”

Dany turns smiling eyes to Jon. “Dorne and the North...we could sail now for Westeros now.”

“We still don’t have an army,” Jon points out reluctantly. “Or a fleet to carry it.”

“You will need an army,” Oberyn agrees, rising. “You may have Dorne and the North, but there are the Westerlands, the Crownlands, the Stormlands, the Riverlands, the Reach, and the Vale, and they have no small supply of men.”

“The Riverlands may follow my aunt, Lady Catelyn,” Jon suggests.

“May is not will, and even so, it is not enough to ensure victory.”

Dany looks as disappointed as Jon feels. “Then how am I to return to Westeros?”

“With the Unsullied,” Jorah urges.

“Slaves?” Ellaria asks, wrinkling her nose. “What sort of queen would bring a slave army to conquer the Seven Kingdoms?”

“Exactly,” Dany says, looking pointedly at Jorah. 

“You think the people will respect you any more if you bring a sellsword army to their shores? A sellsword army is loyal only to gold, and they will rape and plunder, where the Unsullied will not. If it is keeping them in chains you fear, I know you will be kind to them. You will not mutilate them to prove a point or make them murder babies and strangle dogs.”

“No,” she agrees, “but a great injustice has been done to them.”

“Closing your eyes will not undo it.”

“You’re Jorah Mormont, aren’t you?” Oberyn Martell asks, his eyes mistrusting. “You were exiled because you sold poachers into slavery, did you not?”

Jorah looks chastened. “It was a long time ago.”

“Not long enough, it seems.” 

“What would you have her do, then?”

“Bring a  _ free _ army to Westeros, not an army of slaves.”

“It hardly matters if they’re free or slaves, because I don’t have money enough for a large army anyway,” Dany says bitterly.

“You have Illyrio’s holds—”

“Which are enough to buy only one century. I heard Kraznys say so.”

“The ships, then.” 

“Another century if the Good Masters are generous. That’s two hundred Unsullied and no ships to carry such a paltry army across the Narrow Sea.”

“You’d have to sell one of your dragons to afford the whole army,” Oberyn comments.

Dany opens her mouth to argue--and then closes it. Jon can see the cogs turning.

“ _ Khaleesi _ ?” Jorah asks tentatively.

She straightens her back. “Find the slave girl Missandei and arrange an audience with the Good Masters. I have an idea, one that should appease both sides.”

Jorah raises his eyebrows but bows. “As you command.” He goes off in search of Missandei, or someone who can speak enough of the Common Tongue to help him find her. 

“What is this idea, Your Grace?” Ellaria asks.

Dany shakes her head. “Good ideas are like wishes; they don’t come true if you say them aloud.”

.

The bloodriders never find the little girl, but Jon hadn’t really expected them to. A child with a manticore seems beyond Robert’s scope, and more in line with something the warlocks from the House of the Undying might send after Dany. Perhaps it’s even Xaro Xhoan Daxos, bitter and aggrieved after she refused to marry him. 

It matters little; the Good Masters agree to an audience, and Dany goes to meet them in one of her Qartheen gowns, a deep violet that brings out the purple in her eyes. She takes Jon, Jorah, Oberyn Martell, Ellaria Sand, Strong Belwas, her bloodriders, and her handmaidens with her. They all stand in attendance inside the pyramid while Dany meets with the eight Good Masters, those who oversee the Unsullied. Their own slaves stand in attendance, fanning them or bringing them refreshment; only Missandei stands between the two parties to act as a translator. 

“Good Master Kraznys thanks you for the swiftness of your reply, and he asks you to name the number of Unsullied you are interested in purchasing,” she says, hands clasped before her.

“All,” Dany says simply, accepting a flute of persimmon wine.

Missandei’s implacable expression slides off her face. “All?” she repeats uncertainly. “Your Grace, did this worthless one’s ears mishear you?”

Dany sips her wine. “You ears heard true. I want to buy them all. Tell the Good Masters, if you will.”

Kraznys is disbelieving, and Missandei relates his question more politely than he rendered it. “Of thousands, there are eight. There are also six centuries, who shall be part of a ninth thousand when completed. Is this what you mean by  _ all _ ?”

“Yes,” says Dany. “The eight thousands, the six centuries, and the ones still in training as well.”

The Good Masters confer for a long moment before Missandei speaks. 

“The eight thousand you shall have, if your gold proves sufficient. And the six centuries, if you wish. Come back in a year, and the Good Masters will sell you another two thousand.”

“In a year I shall be in Westeros,” Dany counters. “My need is  _ now. _ The Unsullied are well trained, but even so, many will fall in battle. I shall need the boys as replacements to take up the swords they drop. Tell the Good Masters that I will want even the little ones who still have their puppies. Tell them that I will pay as much for the boy they cut yesterday as for their oldest Unsullied.” 

Jon glances at Jorah, who looks dubiously back at him. They both know that Dany has no way to pay for such an army...but why, then, does she pretend she does?

“Your Grace,” one of the Masters growls in the Common Tongue, “Westeros is being wealthy, yes, but you are not being queen now. Perhaps will never being queen. Even Unsullied may be losing battles to savage steel knights of Seven Kingdoms. I am reminding, the Good Masters of Astapor are not selling flesh for promisings. Are you having gold and trading goods sufficient to be paying for all these eunuchs you are wanting?” 

“You know the answer to that better than I, Good Master,” Dany says wryly. “Your men have gone through my ships and tallied every bead of amber and jar of saffron. How much do I have?” 

“Sufficient to be buying one of thousands,” the Good Master says with a contemptuous smile. “Yet you are paying double, you are saying. Five centuries, then, is all you buy. For your pretty crown of dragons, perhaps another century.”

“My crown is not for sale, but my ships you can have. The great cog  _ Balerion _ and the galleys  _ Vhagar _ and  _ Meraxes _ .” 

The Good Masters confer again.

“Two of the thousands,” the Good Master who speaks the Common Tongue says. “It is too much, but the Good Masters are being generous and your need is being great.” 

It is all Dany can hope to have...yet still it is not enough.

“Give me all,” she says, “and you may have a dragon.” 

Jon feels his heart sink. Could it be that after everything, she’s so desperate for the Iron Throne that she would sell her own dragons?

“No,” he says softly, going to one knee beside her. “Dany, I beg you. You must not do this thing—” 

“You must not presume to instruct me. Ser Jorah, remove my nephew from my presence.” 

Jorah takes Jon and removes him swiftly from the room. 

“Let go of me!” Jon snaps as soon as they are out in the corridor, surprised and hurt by Dany’s swift dismissal.

Jorah’s eyes are sad. “I had not thought it would come to this.”

“Nor I.” Jon paces up and down, nervous. “How could she do this? Those dragons are like her children.”

“Her need is great,” Jorah says unhappily. 

Incensed, Jon points an accusing finger at him. “It’s your fault she’s doing this thing. You made her desperate to take the Unsullied, and now she’s giving them one of her children.”

Jorah does not even argue, only looks at Jon sadly. “Perhaps you are right.”

It is only a moment later when Dany and the rest of her retinue leave the room. 

“Jon,” she says, never breaking stride, “I always want your counsel...when we are alone. But  _ never _ question me in front of strangers. Is that understood?” 

“You would sell one of your own children for a slave army,” he spits. “A dragon is worth more than any army. A child, your child, is worth more than any army.” 

“I agree.”

“You agree?” he asks incredulously.

She stops, turning to face him. “Jon. Do you still love me?”

He’s baffled by the question. Does she truly hate herself so much? “Yes.”

“Then you must trust me in this.”

He laughs bitterly. “How can I trust you when you would sell one of the dragons to take back Westeros with an army of slaves?”

She squeezes his wrist. “It is not as it seems. Trust me, Jon. For the love you bear me, for the blood we share, for the days you followed me across the Red Waste,  _ trust me _ .”

He hesitates...but he sees the earnestness in her eyes and wilts. “I will try.”

“That is all I ask.”

.

He spends the night tossing and turning, unable to sleep. Not even Doreah can soothe him, and in the early hours of dawn, he goes up to the deck to try and find some respite.

Dany is on the deck also, and somehow, that does not surprise Jon. He debates going back to his cabin, but then she catches sight of him and he knows he cannot avoid her. He walks to the rail, keeping a few feet between them.

“You hate me.” It isn’t a question.

“No.”

Dany takes a deep breath. “I was alone for a long time, Jon. All alone but for my brother. I was such a small scared thing. Viserys should have protected me, but instead he hurt me and scared me worse. He shouldn’t have done that. He wasn’t just my brother, he was my  _ king _ . Why do the gods make kings and queens, if not to protect the ones who can’t protect themselves?” 

He considers the question. “Some kings make themselves. Robert did.”

“He was no true king,” Dany says scornfully. “He did no justice. Justice...that’s what kings are  _ for _ .” She takes another deep breath. “To go north, you must journey south. To reach the west, you must go east. To go forward you must go back, and to touch the light you must pass beneath the shadow.” 

He looks at her, puzzled. “Quaithe?”

“Yes.” She looks at him. “I thought she meant Asshai for the longest time...but now I see the shadow is more than just a place.  _ To go forward you must go back. _ ”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither did I. But you will soon.”

.

In the morning, Dany and all her people make for the Plaza of Pride. She wears a simple blue dress that rides high on her legs; plain sandsilk trousers and high leather boots give her room for movement.

_ She’s planning something, _ Jon knows...but what?

All the people of Astapor gather around the Plaza, watching the Mother of Dragons trade one of her children for every last Unsullied in the city. Their brightly colored tokars fringed in silver, gold, and pearls catch the light. They stand along the pyramids or under the shade of silk awnings while servants keep them cool and shaded. 

The dragons have been put in a litter covered in leather; the less they can see, the less distressed they will become. Jon stays close beside it, wishing he could reach in and set them free. Better to be free than sold to a slaver. 

All eight thousand, six hundred Unsullied stand in the Plaza, spears in hand as the masters inspect them. There is no need for such an inspection, in truth; they all know the Unsullied are more than prepared to enter the service of their new mistress.

Missandei translates for the Good Masters as they give Daenerys final instructions--bleed them early, send back the slaves she takes, and in ten years, they will be Unsullied, too. Jon barely listens; instead, he looks around him, wondering if there is a way he can stop this foolishness.

Illyrio’s goods are handed over, with slaves tallying everything up. All that remains is…

“Dragon,” Kraznys says expectantly.

Wordlessly, Daenerys goes to the leather-covered litter. All of the dragons cry out at seeing her, but she only takes Drogon, covering the litter again when she has removed him. He opens his black and scarlet wings and rises up in the air, but a chain keeps him attached to Dany. Stone-faced, she walks him to Kraznys, who can hardly contain his excitement. He takes the grip and, barely looking at her, thrusts a ceremonial whip into her hand. She turns it over, looking at it curiously.

“Is it done, then? They belong to me?”

“It is done,” Missandei translates. “You hold the whip.”

Jon looks at Drogon, distressed. The dragon strains against the chain, screeching, and Kraznys’s yanking only aggravates him. Jon is so upset that it takes him a long moment to realize that Dany is shouting in Valyrian. 

He has known all along that Dany could speak Valyrian. She pretended not to, to make the Good Masters underestimate her and to learn more than she would have had they known she spoke their tongue, but for her to speak it now means she does not care that the Good Masters know.

She shouts a command and the Unsullied march forward; she shouts another command and they halt. When she turns to look at Kraznys, she speaks with more ferocity and anger than Jon has ever heard. He sees the dismay slowly dawning on Kraznys’s face and knows he does not like what he is being told. When Dany turns back to the Unsullied, she shouts a series of commands. The only one that Jon understands is the one she gives to Drogon.

“ _ Dracarys. _ ”

The dragon unleashes a flood of fire, killing Kraznys mo Nakloz where he stands. He burns until the chain is no more, and as the first Unsullied drives his spear through the first master, Jon releases Viserion and Rhaegal from the litter. They take to the sky to join their brother, and soon Astapor is consumed in fire and blood.

.

When the smoke has cleared, the Good Masters and their ilk no more than ash and bone, Jon finds Dany in the Plaza of Pride. She looks as if she has not moved from where she stood when she commanded the Unsullied to kill every master in Astapor and to strike the chains from every slave. Perhaps she has not.

She looks up at him and smiles faintly. “I could not sell Drogon because a dragon is no slave.”

“You fooled us all.”

“I had to. For it to work.” She holds out her hand. “Trust me, Jon.”

He takes her hand. “I trust you.”

Together, they walk into the heart of the Unsullied, who have gathered in their neat rows as if nothing has happened. None of them were so much as bruised in the fight, but Jon supposes that makes sense; they are, after all, the greatest warriors in the world.

He helps Dany onto her silver and follows on his own mare. She rides up and down their ranks, calling to them in Valyrian. When she is finished, there is a long pause...and then, slowly, one by one, the Unsullied tap their spears up and down, up and down, until the air is filled with the music of freedom. They follow her out of the slave city that is no more, and when she tosses the harpy’s whip onto the ground, it is trampled by the feet of eight thousand Unsullied. 


	34. CATELYN II

She sits at the window for a long time, staring out at the river. Soon, they will be placing her father in that river, lighting a boat to carry him to the gods. 

Uncle Brynden finds her there, too weary even to cry. 

“It’s time, little Cat,” he says softly.

She closes her eyes, summoning the strength to stand. She takes Uncle Brynden’s arm and walks with him out to the dock. 

_ Let the kings of winter have their cold crypt under the earth _ , Catelyn thinks. The Tullys draw their strength from the river, and it is to the river they return when their lives run their course. 

Her father looks magnificent in the funereal boat, his armor polished and shined, his red and blue cloak clean and ironed beneath him. In his hands are his greatsword, which had been polished and sharpened by Edmure himself. The boat is strewn with hay to catch fire quickly, and from the prow, the leaping trout of Riverrun dances in the wind. 

Seven were chosen to push the funereal boat to the water, in honor of the seven faces of god. Edmure is one, and with him are the Lords Bracken, Blackwood, Vance, and Mallister, Ser Marq Piper, and Ser Desmond Grell. They had offered a place to Uncle Brynden, but he had refused.

“My brother never liked me in life; he would hate my seeing him off in his death.”

“He wouldn’t hate it,” Catelyn had protested, but still Uncle Brynden refused.

She watches from the dock as the seven men push the boat into the water, making sure the stream catches it. When it begins to sail upriver, the men get out of the water. Edmure’s squire hands him his bow and arrow, which he dips into a burning brazier before nocking it. The flaming arrow sails into the sky...and lands with a  _ plop _ astern of the boat. 

“The wind,” Edmure mumbles, nocking another arrow. He overcorrects, and the arrow lands far upstream of the boat. 

Rickon starts to giggle. Catelyn gives him a warning look, and he has the good grace to muffle his giggles in his fist. 

“Let me, my lord,” Uncle Bryden offers.

_ My lord. _ Edmure is lord of Riverrun now, and by extension, the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands.

_ My baby brother. In many ways, Edmure was my first child. It is a mother’s pride I feel for him...and a mother’s sorrow that I cannot be there to counsel him when he needs it. _

It has been far too long since she visited Riverrun. Edmure had grown into a man in that time, and her father had withered and died. His lungs still breathed and his heart still beat when she arrived, but he was dead in spirit if not in body. He didn’t even recognize her, at times calling her Minisa, at times, Lysa.

_ My poor sister. _ Lysa had broken down in the middle of the Kingsroad, weeping hysterically when the rider brought the news from King’s Landing. She’d hied back to the capital at once. Catelyn can hardly blame her for it, and in truth, some part of her still feels guilty that she had not gone back to the city with her sister. She was there at her father’s last breath, it’s true, but he had not even recognized her. 

_ Edmure needs me, _ she reminds herself.

But...does he? He is a man grown now, and he grew up without her there to mind him. Ned needs her, too; Jon Arryn was his father and his friend, and he must be mourning his passing greatly.

“I can do it,” Edmure insists now, gritting his teeth as he fires another arrow. This, too, misses its mark. Angrily, he thrusts the bow at Uncle Brynden, who nocks a flaming arrow and fires it without so much as blinking. The boat catches fire, and Catelyn lets out a small, dry sob as she watches her father drift away, a burning star she will never see again.

Rickon reaches for her hand, twining his fingers with hers. “It’s alright, Mother,” he says in a reassuring voice. “He’s with the gods now.”

She lets out another sob and stoops down to hug her son. Uncle Brynden rests a hand on her shoulder, and even Shaggydog licks her face, despite her protestations. She finds that she doesn’t mind his smelly breath and rough tongue so much. 

“It is no disgrace to miss your shot,” Uncle Brynden tells Edmure. “The day my own lord father went downriver, Hoster missed as well.” 

“With his first shaft.” Catelyn had been too young to remember, but her father had often told the tale. “His second found the sail.” 

“It’s a Tully tradition,” Uncle Brynden jokes.

Edmure wipes his eyes, and Catelyn stands up, wrapping her arms around him. He holds her with a man’s strength, but in her mind’s eye, he is as small as Rickon.

.

The Tullys and Starks dine privately that night, too tired and solemn to eat in the great hall. It’s quiet, and the most anyone talks is to tell Rickon to stop playing with his food.

Maester Vyman enters with a knock, his brow knit. “Forgive me, my lord, my lady...a rider came from King’s Landing.”

Catelyn tenses. “More ill news?”

“He is without, my lady. Shall I send him in?”

“Yes.” Catelyn needs her family around her if she’s to take more ill news.

But the man who enters is no mere rider.

“Alyn!” Rickon shouts. “What are you doing in Riverrun?”

Alyn smiles at the young boy, tousling his hair when he gets up to greet him. “Hello, little Stark.”

“Alyn,” Catelyn says, rising. “What brings you all this way?” She grips his arm. “What’s wrong?”

The smile slides off his face. “Queen Lyanna, my lady...she’s been banished from court.”

Catelyn closes her eyes. “It’s happened.”

“Lord Stark said you would understand.”

“All too well.”

“What’s happened?” Edmure asks. “Why has Queen Lyanna been banished from court?”

Catelyn turns to her brother. “I will explain all in a moment.” She turns back to Alyn. “Ned…?”

“He’s alright, my lady; he took the girls and young Bran and left with Queen Lyanna. He sent me on ahead to warn you they’d be coming.”

“Are they in danger?”

“I don’t think so, my lady.”

She sighs in relief. “Very well. Maester Vyman, will you see that this man is well tended?”

The maester bows. “Of course, my lady.” He leads Alyn out of the solar, and with a shaky sigh, Catelyn sinks back into her seat.

“Cat, what is it?” Edmure presses.

She reaches over to take his hand in hers. “What are our words, Edmure?”

“Our words?” He blinks at her. “Family, Duty, Honor.”

“Family, Duty, Honor,” she agrees. “I pray you remember all three when I tell you what is happening...that first one especially.” She takes a deep breath and tells her brother, uncle, and son about a boy named Jon Snow.


	35. THEON III

The time they spend in Dorne is brief but blissful. Despite the awkward reception Theon and Robb had received, Princess Arianne soon warms up to them. Theon suspects that Asha has something to do with it, but he’d never dare ask.

The Dornish sleep away most of their days, he’s found. He understands that. It’s hot during the day, and there’s almost never anything good to do. 

But at night…

At night, Sunspear becomes a whole new city.

Princess Arianne takes them to fighting pits (with free men, she tells them; they are not as barbaric as the Ghiscari, to make slaves fight bears and lions and each other), to banquets, to parties with sultry dancing and sultrier women. She introduces them to Dornish lords and ladies and Dornish bastards named Sand, and she treats each one with as much importance as the next. Sometimes she takes them on her pleasure barge, up and down the river as she feeds Asha grapes and her minstrels sing them songs.

They’ve only been in Sunspear for a few of days when her cousins, the Sand Snakes, join them. They are beautiful and wicked, and if he had any secrets worth telling, Theon knows they would have them out of him in a trice. 

Robb takes a liking to the one named Tyene. She is the fairest of Oberyn Martell’s daughters, with golden hair and eyes so deep a blue they are nearly purple. She claims to be a septa’s daughter, which accounts for her sweet and modest nature...but abed, she is wicked as a whore. 

For his own part, Theon takes a liking to the one named Lady Nym...and her lovers, the Fowler twins, Jennelyn and Jeyne. They like him, too, inviting him into their bed on the first night. He finds himself in it every night after that, too.

“My baby brother and I finally have something in common,” Asha teases when she invites herself to a late lunch with Theon and Robb one afternoon. “We both like Dornish women.”

“He just likes women named Jeyne,” Robb says with a smirk. 

Theon scowls. “I never should have told you about that.” He had told Robb about Jeyne Poole’s little trick, expecting sympathy and outrage from his friend; instead, Robb had laughed in his face.

“Serves you right,” he’d said mercilessly. “You shouldn’t be unkind to her, even if she is a steward’s daughter.”

He gets no sympathy now, either, as both Robb  _ and _ his wretched sister join forces to tease him about Jeyne Poole. 

“She’s nothing to me,” he says stubbornly. 

“Is that why you found a girl named Jeyne and bedded her?”

“ _ And _ her sister,  _ and _ their lover,” Theon insists. “How many women have you bedded here, Stark? One?”

“One,” Robb agrees, twining his fingers behind his head in the very picture of relaxation. “But she’s  _ more _ than enough woman for me.”

Arianne breezes in at that moment, depositing herself in Asha’s lap without so much as a word of greeting.

“Please, sit down and join us, my lady,” Theon deadpans.

“Play nice,” Asha warns him.

Arianne yawns, plucking a fig from the table. “Bad news, my friends.”

“What?” 

“Darkstar is coming.”

The other three exchange looks.

“Who...is Darkstar?” Robb asks.

Arianne sighs. “Gerold Dayne, the Knight of High Hermitage and a cousin of the late Sword of the Morning.”

“An impressive pedigree.”

“Pedigree, yes,” Arianne agrees. “But personality?” She mimes hanging herself with a noose.

“That bad?” Asha asks.

“Worse. I once thought he was handsome, but I think I must have been drunk. He’s bitter that he will never compare to Ser Arthur Dayne, and bitterer still that Starfall belongs to a boy half his age and is run by a woman.”

“He sounds charming,” Asha says, rolling her eyes. “Why’s he coming here?”

“He often comes here, to court me.” Arianne rolls her own eyes. “ _ Men _ .”

“Look, I didn’t  _ know _ —”

“I’m only jesting, Stark.” Arianne smiles at him. “But you seem happy here nonetheless.”

“I am,” he admits.

“My cousin says your cock is bigger than your brain.”

Robb opens his mouth to argue, closes it, and opens it again. “Is that...a good thing?”

“Bless him,” Asha says. “I see why you’re so fond of him, little brother.”

“He’s a little confused, but he’s got the spirit,” Theon agrees. 

.

The sun dips below the horizon and the sky becomes streaked with gold and pink, purple, and blue, until at last it is black with night, the stars shining in their net. It is then that the motley group of Theon, Robb, Asha, Arianne, and the Sand Snakes slither out into the night. They are in high spirits as they spill out onto the street; the Fowler twins twirl one another, stumbling into Theon and Nym and giggling madly, and up ahead, Obara lifts Robb over her shoulder just to prove she can. They are all drunk on laughter when a dark shape steps in front of them, and Theon catches both Fowler twins as they trip over themselves in surprise. 

“Princess Arianne,” the stranger says, pulling down the hood of his cloak.

What Theon sees before him is the most ridiculous looking man he’s ever met.

This man has silver hair hanging down to his collar, but a streak of black runs down one side of his head, giving him a wild, unbalanced look. His eyes are a dark purple, and though his face is objectively comely, his smile makes Theon feel sure that he’s killed a puppy or two in his life. 

“Darkstar,” Arianne says--not unkindly, but not overly generous.

_ Ah. _ So this is the man she was complaining about this afternoon.

He stoops low, kissing her hand. “It is, as always, a pleasure to see you, my lady.”

“Yes.” She withdraws her hand, subtly wiping it on her shawl. “Have you met my guests? Lady Asha Greyjoy of the Iron Islands, her brother Theon, and Robb Stark of Winterfell.”

Darkstar raises his eyebrows. “A pleasure to meet all of you...but what, I wonder, are you doing so far from home?”

“The same thing you are,” Arianne says pleasantly. “Looking for wives.”

Darkstar gives Asha a condescending look. “Even you, Lady Asha?”

“Oh, I’ve already found one,” Asha says brightly, wrapping an arm around Arianne’s waist. Darkstar doesn’t miss the movement, and his smile becomes more forced.

“I see.”

“I met your cousin in King’s Landing,” Robb, ever the diplomat, offers kindly. “Lord Edric Dayne.”

Darkstar’s face becomes a stone mask, impossible to read. “How fun for you.” 

They stand for a moment in awkward silence until Darkstar finally says, “Forgive me, I did not mean to intrude. I will see you at the palace, my lady.”

“Of course,” Arianne says, and she and the others continue down the street.

They stay quiet long after Darkstar is out of earshot, the jolly mood dampened by his sudden appearance. It’s Lady Lance who breaks the silence.

“How  _ fun _ for you,” she says in a spot-on imitation.

The group bursts into laughter again, and the merriment restored, they continue on to a night of revelry.

.

In the morning, while Theon, Nym, Jeyne, and Jennelyn lie strewn about his bed, a rough tongue licks Theon’s hand until he wakes.

“Go away,” he orders the direwolf.

But Grey Wind persists, until at last Theon is forced to open his eyes and look up.

Robb stands by his bed, a pale look on his face. 

“What is it?” Theon asks, sitting up.

Robb holds a raven’s scroll in his hands. “My mother writes from Riverrun.”

“Your grandfather?” Theon guesses. In truth, he doesn’t know why Robb seems so upset; Lord Hoster has been dying for years, and Robb never knew the man. Perhaps he’s only sentimental.

But Robb shakes his head. “Something happened in King’s Landing. My aunt, Queen Lyanna, has been exiled. My father and Bran and the girls have gone with her.”

Theon stares at him. “What’s happened?”

“I don’t know, only...Mother says I must come home. She warns me it will not be safe for a Stark to be so far away from the North. She says I must avoid King’s Landing at all costs, and I must not announce myself if I can help it.”

Theon feels his heart pound in his chest. What could possibly have happened? Queen Lyanna is  _ exiled _ ?

_ Robert loves her, _ he thinks, stunned.  _ He fought a war for her, he took her even when she’d been raped by another man. What could possibly have happened for her to be exiled and for the Starks to be unsafe here? _

“We have to go,” Robb continues, pale faced. “We have to go back to Winterfell.”

Theon rubs his eyes. “Alright. How do we go?”

“I don’t know,” Robb admits. “It’s a long way by horse, but the safest, I think, if we mean to lay low. Grey Wind can go off by himself, and they don’t need to know that he’s...that I’m…”

“That you’re a Stark.” Theon stands up. “We’ll leave today. You’re right, by horse is safest. There are many travelers going up and down the Kingsroad, and many wolves in the forests.” 

Robb looks troubled. “But the Dornish desert will be hard on Grey Wind...he’s a direwolf, after all.”

Theon hesitates. “Well...perhaps a ship, then. To Oldtown, or to the Marches. Then by horse.”

Robb looks relieved. “Yes. That would work.” Naked though Theon is, Robb embraces him all the same. “Thank you, Theon.”

He leaves to send a raven back to Lady Catelyn and to pack. Theon does the same, finding fresh clothes and packing all the rest. The girls barely stir on the bed, but that’s alright with him; he’d rather remember them this way, naked and beautiful and sated from their last night with him. 

When he is packed and ready, he goes to meet Robb, but it is Asha who accosts him in the corridor.

“You’re leaving?” she accuses, and her eyes almost look hurt.

“I have to. Lady Catelyn wrote to Robb; Queen Lyanna’s been exiled, and all the Starks are in danger.”

“You’re not a Stark,” Asha says gently.

Theon bristles at that. “I am a Stark, I’m not a Stark. What am I, Asha?”

“You’re my brother. Not Robb Stark’s.” Her eyes flash with resentment. “You don’t have to go with him, you know. It’s his life that’s in danger, not yours.”

“Lord Stark is my guardian,” he reminds her. 

“Your gaoler.”

“Guardian, gaoler, however you like. King Robert will want me dead all the same.”

“It doesn’t have to be this way.” She grips his arm. “Theon, listen to me. You’re not beholden to the Starks. Tell me true, if it was your pelt Robert was after, would Robb do the same for you? Would any of them?”

“Of course,” he says, but doubt creeps in. 

She shakes her head. “You stupid boy. Stay here, with me. You’ll be safe in Dorne. Arianne will let you stay. She’ll offer protection if need be. You can fuck Nym and her twins all you like. We can sleep and drink and fuck these Martell girls all we want and no one will know the difference. If you leave with Robb Stark, you’ll only be a target.”

There’s truth in what she says, yet he cannot bring himself to betray Robb. Not even for Asha.

“He’s my brother, for better or worse,” he says gently. 

“And I am your  _ sister. _ ”

“If the day comes when your life is in danger, I will come to your aid,” he promises. “But right now, it is Robb who needs me. Goodbye, Asha.” 

He, Robb, and Grey Wind are halfway down the palace steps when she catches up with them.

“How are you getting back to Winterfell?”

“We’ll take a ship to Oldtown and take horses from there.”

“Don’t be stupid,” she huffs. “You get off at Oldtown and Robert will know where you are in a heartbeat. Take a ship to the Marches; miles and miles of fields and moors. Arianne says a whore could walk naked across the Marches and never once get fucked.”

“Then we’ll do that,” Robb decides.

“Alright. Let me send for my ship.”

“Your ship?” Theon repeats in surprise.

She gives him a wry look. “Did you think I walked here from Pyke?”

“No. But I thought you didn’t want me to go.”

“I don’t. But if you insist on doing this stupid thing, at least let me take you as far as the Marches. You’ll never survive Dorne on your own, and I’m far too fond of that wolf to let him suffer the desert.”

“Thank you,” Robb says, touched. 

She throws him a dirty look. “I’m not doing it for you, Stark.” Her gaze softens. “Or maybe I am. Remember my brother is risking his life for you. If I find out you won’t do the same for him, I’ll make you live to regret it.”

Robb shakes his head as she leaves to find her first mate. “Your sister is the strangest woman I’ve ever met.”

Theon watches her with a smile. “I know. That’s why I love her.”


	36. CASSANA I

Cassie, Shireen, Tommen, and Myrcella all sit under the table, still as statues and trying not to so much as breathe too loudly as their fathers talk above them. 

“And you never suspected anything...odd?”

“Why should I have?”

“I suppose you shouldn’t have.”

“I did find it odd that Ned came back from war with a babe,” Father allows. “But we were at war. And he and I had...we’d argued, after the Sack.”

“Something about your killing babies, I seem to recall,” Uncle Renly says impishly.

“Quiet,” Father growls. 

“Well, Robert, you can hardly blame her for keeping her bastard boy a secret.”

“Whose side are you on?!”

“Yours, of course, but you must admit, you have something of a reputation for baby-killing.”

“It wasn’t me who killed Rhaegar’s brats—”

“No,” Uncle Stannis cuts in, “but it was you who looked the other way when it happened.”

Cassie’s never heard anyone speak about the Sack of King’s Landing so openly before. She knew it had happened, of course, but it was always glossed over. There were whispers about the Mountain raping Princess Elia with the blood of her infant son all over him, but Cassie had always understood she wasn’t to talk about such things. 

_ Did my father really look the other way? Did he care that Lannister men had killed Rhaegar’s little children? _

There is so much Cassie is learning about the Rebellion, so much she never knew before.

_ Like my mother giving birth to Rhaegar’s son, and my Uncle Ned taking him and raising him as his own. _

In truth, she doesn’t know how to feel about such a thing. She had always liked her cousin Jon, and he had always liked her for her wildness, not just her princessly birth. But for him to be her brother? For her whole life to be a lie? 

_ My mother told me I was her only child, but that was a lie. She’d had a son, and now she seeks to put him on my father’s throne. _

“Are you here to scold me for ill deeds long past or advise me?”

“I cannot do one without the other.”

“Then be gone with you.”

Uncle Stannis does not move. “Robert, you looked the other way when the Lannisters killed Aegon and Rhaenys, and only recently you sent assassins after Daenerys Targaryen while she was heavy with child. Of course Lyanna feared you’d kill another Targaryen child, even if it was her own. Of course she lied to protect the babe.”

“He’s no longer a babe,” Father reminds him. “He’s a man grown, and he seeks to put his aunt on the throne. Rhaegar’s last son and only sister. Gods, the singers will never shut up.”

“They’re still halfway across the world. The last report of them was in some place called Qarth. Where  _ is _ Qarth, anyway?” Uncle Renly scoffs.

“Halfway across the world with no ships and no army,” Uncle Stannis agrees. “They’re hardly a threat as of right now.”

“ _ As of right now. _ But what happens when they  _ do _ become a threat? When they find the gold and the sympathy for ships and an army?”

“It would have to be an exorbitant amount of gold and sympathy to find an army big enough to be a real threat, and ships to carry them.”

“Even so, they have the North behind them.”

“We don’t know that.”

“No? What do you think Ned Stark is going to do up in Winterfell, twiddle his thumbs?”

“Robert, the Targaryens have nothing. What’s a small sellsword army, a few galleys, and what Northmen will muster against the strength of the Seven Kingdoms?”

“The Targaryens conquered Westeros once before, and they may do it again.”

“With what?  _ Dragons _ ?” Uncle Renly laughs heartily. “Stop your worrying.”

The three men are quiet for a long moment. 

“What do you think happened to Jon Arryn? Truly?”

“Truly? You don’t believe Pycelle?”

“I believe Pycelle’s lips are as wrinkly as his arse and all that comes out of those lips are winds disguised as words.”

“Ever the poet.”

“Jon was old, but he was hale. It had to have been poison.”

“You don’t think the Starks were lying?”

“Strangely enough, no. Maybe it’s not that strange. Jon raised Ned and me like his own sons, and Ned has always loved him. Even Lyanna got along with Jon; they went together to see my bastards. No, someone else killed Jon, but I think whoever did it wanted it to look like the Starks.”

“Lysa Arryn?” Uncle Stannis suggests.

“Gods, Stannis, you truly think that woman had it in her? She wasn’t even there when it happened.”

“She could have left it for Jon. Besides, she’s gone now, isn’t she? Taken her whelp and fled back to the Eyrie.”

“What good would it do her? What does she have to gain from poisoning her husband?”

“Many women do.”

“Many, but Jon was not an unkind husband, nor is Lysa the devious type. Besides, he  _ was _ old; she’d only have to suffer through it a few more years.”

“Show some damn respect.”

“Alright, then who else gains from his murder? What secrets did he have? What enemies did he make?”

“None, and none. Jon shared everything with me, and he made no enemies.”

“ _ Someone _ wanted him dead.”

“Are you  _ sure _ it wasn’t the Starks? Or just old age?”

“I’d sooner believe he died of old age than a Stark using poison. The Starks are too honorable for that sort of thing.”

“That’s strange, because I seem to recall them keeping a rather large secret from you for twenty years.”

“Sod off, Renly.”

“Fine. Have you given any thought as to who your next Hand will be?”

“Honestly, no.”

“What about Tywin Lannister?” Uncle Renly suggests.

Father snorts. “Tywin Lannister. Half the realm hates him.”

“And half the realm fears him. Perhaps...you would do well to have a Hand so many fear. What with everything...happening.”

“Perhaps you’re right.”

“Did your wife suggest that, Renly?”

Uncle Renly shifts. “Perhaps.”

“You’re beholden to that woman.”

“All men are beholden to their wives; especially when their wives are Cersei Lannister.”

Another silence passes. Cassie glances at her cousins, who all stare back at her with wide eyes. On either side of her, Shireen and Myrcella squeeze her hands. Her palms are slick with sweat, but they do not recoil. They seem just as frightened as she is.

“Do you know, the only person I can think of who’d gain anything from Jon’s death is Littlefinger...but I don’t suppose it was him.”

Father snorts. “No, I don’t suppose it was.”

“I hated that man,” Uncle Stannis declares. “It was unseemly, for a Master of Coin to keep brothels.”

“Well, he found the coin, didn’t he?”

“And a few enemies along the way, it would seem.”

“I warned him,” Uncle Stannis persists. “I warned him that no good would come from such a thing. He always laughed and told me that whores were a sounder investment than ships, yet what investor died from a sunken ship?”

“Do you really think it was one of his own whores who strangled him? Or an enemy who made it look like a whore?”

“Who can know, with a man like that?”

“ _ I _ think it was Lyanna.”

“Oh, she strangled him two days after she left the city, did she?”

“Well, not  _ her _ , exactly, but someone sent by her.”

“I ask you the same question you asked me: what does she have to gain from it? She’s been exiled from the city, her disgrace known to the Seven Kingdoms; what would killing Littlefinger do?”

“Revenge. Perhaps he knew her secret and told the Arryns.”

“Renly,  _ enough, _ it wasn’t the Starks who killed Jon.”

“Until a better theory comes along, that’s the one I’m sticking to.”

“Jon Arryn, Littlefinger. Who will be next, I wonder?”

“It’ll be Jon Snow, or there’ll be hell to pay,” Father says grimly.

Cassie gasps, and Shireen and Myrcella both cover her mouth, shooting worried looks at the table above them.

But if their fathers hear, none of them acknowledge it. 

_ They can’t kill Jon, _ Cassie thinks desperately.  _ He’s a traitor, but he’s my brother.  _

Rhaegar had kidnapped her mother and raped her, she knows...but had it been as bad as all that? Had her mother loved him in some measure? Or had she only loved her son? 

_ But why is she trying to help Jon put Daenerys on the throne, then? She’s married to my father. Does she not love my father? Has she always secretly loved Rhaegar? Was I the child born of rape, and Jon born out of love? _

“Leave it, Robert. Jon Snow is a bastard who will most likely die a begger alongside that aunt of his.”

“I should send another assassin after them.”

“Do it, if you like, though it seems a waste when a lack of gold will kill them just the same. Or another savage husband of hers.”

Father grunts. “Perhaps. But I don’t want to take any chances.”

Uncle Stannis asks quietly, “What will you do about Lyanna?”

Father sighs, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t know. On the one hand, she betrayed me and is trying to overthrow me. On the other...gods damn me, but I still love that woman. I’ve known for some time she wasn’t mine to have, but I loved her just the same. I fought a war to bring her back, I killed the Targaryens, I became king and made her my queen. She’s my wife and the mother of my heir; how could I not love her?”

“Yes, but what are you going to  _ do _ about her?”

“Right now? Nothing. You’re right, the Targaryens may never make it back here, and without them, there’s no cause for the Northerners to go to war. Let her stay hidden away in the North until…”

“Until what?”

“I don’t know, until she dies or I forgive her.”

“Robert,” Uncle Stannis says sternly, “you can  _ never _ forgive her. What she did is  _ treason. _ ”

“What do you want me to do, march north and kill her?”

“Of course not. But you cannot simply let her walk back into the city without penance. If your own queen conspires against you, what’s to stop others from doing so?”

Father is quiet for a long moment. “I’ll think on it,” he says at last. “But I don’t want to hurt her if I don’t have to.”

“No one wants that.”

“But if she continues to conspire against you, if her efforts succeed…”

Father sighs. “Aye. I know what I have to do.”

Cassie’s eyes fill with tears. Will it truly come to that? Her father killing her mother?

_ Please, gods, don’t let him do it. Father, teach him to be just, and Mother, teach him to be merciful.  _

.

It takes nearly an hour for Father and her uncles to finish supping and drinking. Uncle Stannis is the first to go, having little interest in food or drink...or his brothers. Father follows a long time later, sad and weary. 

Uncle Renly stands beside the table, and as soon as Father’s footsteps have faded away, he lifts up the tablecloth and peers below.

“Father!” Myrcella yelps.

“I thought I smelled some wicked children,” he says with a smile. “Get out from under there.”

They crawl out from under the table, brushing off their clothes. 

“Is my father really going to kill my mother?” Cassie blurts.

Uncle Renly’s smile wavers. “No, Cass, I don’t think so. He loves her too much.”

“Is he going to kill my brother?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What if Jon and Daenerys do come here?” Myrcella asks, wide-eyed. “Will it be war?”

“Will they kill us?” Tommen asks.

“Will Aunt Lyanna spare us?” Shireen wants to know.

“Children!” Uncle Renly exclaims, alarmed. “You mustn’t worry about such things.”

“But we  _ are _ worried,” Cassie says. “My mother is a traitor, and if Jon and Daenerys  _ do _ get an army and ships to bring them here—”

“There is no point in worrying about things that haven’t begun to happen,” Uncle Renly says firmly. “Put it from your minds, all of you.”

“But what about Jon Arryn? And Littlefinger? Who killed them? Why?”

“ _ Cass _ ,” he says in an even firmer tone. “Let it go.”

Frustrated tears sting her eyes. “My mother is trying to put my brother, who I didn’t even know  _ was _ my brother, on the throne and kill my father. How can I let it go?” Angry at him and at herself for crying, she storms from the room. 

Shireen finds her crying into her pillows. The smaller girl wraps slim arms around her, trying her very best to comfort her cousin. 

“I’m sorry,” she says softly.

Cassie wipes away her tears. “All my life, I thought my parents had the most romantic love story. She was stolen away by an evil prince, and my father fought a war to bring her back. He killed the king and made my mother his queen. Even after the evil prince raped her and locked her away in a tower, my father married her and swore to love her forever. But now…”

“Maybe it’s not as simple as it looks,” Shireen suggests. “Maybe there’s more to it.”

Cassie wipes her face again. She’s sure there  _ must _ be more to it. “But short of asking my mother, how would I…”

She sits up.

Of course. She could  _ ask _ her mother.

Her father probably wouldn’t approve of it. Come to think of it, he almost definitely wouldn’t. But if she perhaps explained to him that she  _ needs _ to speak with her mother, if she wore him down, convinced him that she could sow peace between them...perhaps he’d let her visit Mother in Winterfell, or wherever it is she’s going. And then Mother could explain everything, and Cassie would finally understand, and maybe she could make peace where before there was discord. 

“I will speak to my father in the morning,” she decides.  _ He will be in a better mood tomorrow. I’ll speak with him then, and see if he won’t make an exception for me. He’s always made exceptions for me. I am not his only child, but I am his only trueborn heir, and he has never told me no.  _

She sleeps better that night than she has since her mother left the city. In the morning, she wakes with an invigorated spirit, her life given purpose once more. She rings for her maid to help her dress...but when her maid comes, Uncle Stannis comes with her, a grave look on his face.

“What is it?” Cassie asks. “Is it my mother?”

Uncle Stannis breathes deeply. “Cassana, you must dress and go to your father.”

“What is it?” she asks again, her heart pounding.

His eyes are sadder than she’s ever seen them. “I’m so sorry, little Cass.”


	37. NED V

It’s a relief to see the sandstone castle ahead of them. Ned rides at the head of their ragtag party, throwing up a hand in greeting.

They must recognize him, because a moment later, the drawbridge lowers to let him and his family cross. The horses’ hooves thunder over the wood, the sound hitting the river below and echoing back at them. It sounds like an army is crossing into Riverrun.

Catelyn is waiting for them in the yard; she embraces Ned as soon as he’s dismounted, her arms tight around him. It hasn’t been that long since they saw each other, truly, but it feels like an age. 

Arya and Bran hug their mother too, but Sansa casts them all withering looks before sweeping inside the castle, Jeyne Poole hurrying along after her. 

“She’s angry,” Ned sighs. 

“Give her time,” Catelyn says gently. 

“She’s right to be angry.” Lyanna is weary. “She was happy in King’s Landing. Now, because of me, she’s an exile.”

Lyanna has been quiet and morose since leaving King’s Landing. Ned can hardly blame her, but it makes his heart ache for her all the same. 

It was always going to end like this, he knows. Robert was never going to humbly submit to Jon and Daenerys, or laugh off his wife’s treason. Ned and Lyanna are lucky they’ve escaped with their lives, even if it’s only for a short while. Robert may soon change his mind and call the banners.

_ He was my brother, once. Now he’s my enemy. _

Rickon and Shaggydog are also in the yard, eager to see the other Starks, and Edmure and Brynden Tully are there, too. Ned only then remembers that Hoster was on his deathbed when Catelyn left, and he feels guilty for not having said something as soon as he arrived.

“Your father…?”

“He has gone to join his forebears,” Catelyn says, clearing her throat.

“I’m so sorry, Cat.”

“He was very ill. I am only thankful I got to see him before he passed.” She squeezes his arm. “Come, you must be weary after riding so hard from King’s Landing.”

“I’m  _ starving _ ,” Arya says bluntly.

“Me too,” Bran agrees.

“Me too,” Rickon echoes.

“Rickon, you only just ate.”

“I’m hungry again!” he insists. 

Edmure and Brynden lead the children and the Stark party inside, chattering inanely to distract the children. Lingering in the back of the group, Catelyn takes Ned’s arm. “I had hoped Lysa would come with you.”

He winces. He hadn’t told Alyn all of it, and in turn, Alyn hadn’t told her everything. “Cat…it was your sister who told Robert the truth.”

She pulls back to look at him, surprised. “Lysa? But...how did she know?”

“I don’t know. But she confronted us in the sept, in front of the entire court. She blamed us for killing Jon Arryn.”

Catelyn is truly shocked. “ _ Why _ ?”

“He took ill very suddenly. I was the last person to dine with him. In a matter of hours, he’d died. I see why she thought it was me, given what she knew.”

“But  _ how _ did she know?”

“I don’t know, Cat. Someone told her.”

“But who knew?”

Lyanna, who’s been walking behind them, stops suddenly and curses.

“What is it?” Ned asks, turning to look at her.

Her face is pale. “I know who told.”

“Who?”

“Littlefinger.”

_ Of course. _ She’d told him when he first came to King’s Landing that Littlefinger had found out the truth and was holding it over her head. But for him to tell Lysa…

Lyanna sways, and Ned and Melisandre both rush to catch her.

“I’m alright,” she says, but her voice sounds faint. “I only...I realize now that he’s the one who killed Jon Arryn.”

“What do you mean?” Ned demands. “How do you know this?”

Lyanna takes a deep breath. “I left a cask of wine for Littlefinger. With...with poison. I didn’t want him to tell anyone my secret. But my spy told me the cask disappeared.”

Ned opens his mouth to protest that he and Jon drank the same wine...but then he remembers Jon opening the new cask.  _ It was poison after all, _ he realizes.  _ Poison left by Littlefinger. _

“But...why Jon? What did Littlefinger have to gain by killing him?”

“Don’t you see, Ned? Littlefinger knew I left him the poisoned cask, so he sent it on to Jon and told Lysa my secret. Now it looks like Jon knew, too, and we poisoned him to keep him quiet.” 

Ned grits his teeth. “Damn the man.  _ Damn him. _ ” He has half a mind to ride back to King’s Landing now and kill Littlefinger where he stands.

“Someone was always going to find out,” Lyanna says wearily. “Sooner or later, someone was going to learn the truth and tell Robert. It’s happened. With any luck, Oberyn Martell has found Jon and Daenerys and is helping to bring them home.”

“I sent a raven to Sunspear,” Catelyn says, taking Ned’s arm. “I sent for Robb and Theon to come home straightaway.”

“Gods, of all the times for them to go off on their own.” Ned feels sick to his stomach. There are so many leagues between here and Sunspear, and so many places for Robb and Theon to get caught. It doesn’t help that they have Grey Wind, who will make them stick out like sore thumbs. He should have sent the girls ahead and gone to Dorne to retrieve his son and ward. That’s what a good father would have done.

“Prince Doran will take care of them,” Lyanna says. “The Martells are our allies.”

“They’ve never been allies of the North.”

“Perhaps not,” she agrees. “But they have always been allies to House Targaryen, and Doran and Oberyn want vengeance for their sister’s death. I promised them Tywin Lannister and the Mountain in exchange for their help.”

“That’s no small promise,” Catelyn says delicately.

“No. But I never make promises I cannot keep.”

.

They do not plan to stay at Riverrun for long; while there has been no word from King’s Landing, Ned will not feel truly safe until he and his family are safely ensconced behind Winterfell’s walls. 

He’s hesitant to broach the subject with this good-brother, whom he barely knows at all, but it seems that Catelyn has already spoken to her brother about the possibility of war. 

“If it comes to war, the Riverlands will stand with the North,” Edmure declares solemnly. “Catelyn is not only my sister, but she was a mother to me as well. Walder Frey is my bannerman, and if I order him to close the Twins to any enemy, he will do it.”

“Walder Frey cannot be trusted,” Catelyn reminds her brother. “The Late Lord Frey, Father always called him. He will not help us unless he feels sure we can defeat Robert’s armies.”

“If he refused to obey me, I would have his head,” Edmure says stubbornly. “He’s my bannerman now.”

“He is an old man; many would look down on you for it, and his sons and grandsons would never forgive you for it.”

“His sons and grandsons are more than ready for him to die,” Edmure says with no small amount of contempt. “And Stevron Frey is a more sensible man than his father by far.”

“Perhaps. But Lord Walder is his father all the same, and he will not take kindly to the man who cut off his father’s head when he may have sweeter offers from King Robert.” She hesitates. “Perhaps...if you married one of his daughters--”

“No,” Edmure says at once. “Lord Walder’s been trying to get me to marry one of his daughters for years.”

“You must marry sooner or later,” Catelyn reminds her brother. “Why not to one of Lord Walder’s daughters? Then you would be able to secure the Twins for good.”

“Lord Walder’s daughters are as wretched as he is.”

“Not so,” Lyanna protests. “Lady Walda is a lovely creature, and wittier than any woman I have ever met.”

“She is not to my taste,” Edmure says as politely as he can manage. “Nor do I think any of his daughters would be. Even the most... _ suitable _ amongst them would be...well…”

Ned goes to the window, trying not to lose his temper. They are on the brink of war, his best friend and brother by law turned against him, and Edmure complains because he may have to marry an unattractive woman? 

_ We ask too much of him, _ he tries to remind himself.  _ He does not remember the harshness of war. He has never understood marrying to create an alliance. He has never understood the necessity of a good marriage, and a quick one.  _

His own marriage to Catelyn had been sudden. He had thought to marry Ashara Dayne before, he had never so much as  _ met _ Catelyn before he and Jon Arryn made all haste to Riverrun. They had married so quickly, and they were only wed a handful of days when he and Jon rode south to join Robert. 

_ I had not known then that I would grow to love her, that she would become dearer to me than anything else in this world. She is more than my wife; she is one half of my heart and my truest friend. _ Perhaps it will be the same for Edmure and his Frey girl...if he will ever stoop to marry her. 

Edmure and Catelyn are still bickering over marriage when Maester Vyman enters.

“My lord, my lady, Lord Stark...news from King’s Landing.”

Ned tenses. “Tell us.”

Catelyn takes his hand, her fingers squeezing his in reassurance.

“First, Lord Petyr Baelish is dead.”

“Petyr?” Catelyn looks shocked. “How?”

“Strangled in his sleep, my lady. They suspect it was one of his…” The maester’s face turns red. “One of his...ladies.”

“One of his whores, you mean,” Edmure says bluntly. 

“Yes, my lord.”

“The second?” Ned asks, nearly trembling with nerves. 

“The second is that Lady Lysa has fled to the Eyrie with her son, Robin.”

“Lysa?” Catelyn and Edmure exchange looks. “Why?”

“She did not say; she and her household left in the night.”

_ Good riddance, _ Ned thinks bitterly. He knows she is Catelyn’s sister, but he will never forgive her for accusing him and Lyanna of poisoning Jon.  _ I remember what he told me, and I loved him more than she ever did. _ Perhaps Jon’s suspicions about her and Littlefinger were right, and she fled in grief. 

The maester takes a deep breath. “Third and last...King Robert...is dead.”

Ned sinks to the ground.


	38. JON XV

They march for Yunkai.

It is a long road, but no one complains. The long road gives Dany time to get to know her new army, and they, her.

Every man among them has the choice to leave whenever they wish, but none of them do. Perhaps they know no life outside of following orders. Perhaps they truly believe in her. Jon prays it is the latter.

Early on in the march, Dany orders them to choose officers. When nine of them have been chosen--one for every thousand, and a ninth for the six centuries--Dany orders them to choose a commander amongst those nine. The overwhelming vote is a slender youth named Grey Worm, whose face is as hard as stone. Dany told all of the men to take whatever names they wished, but Grey Worm had insisted on keeping this one.

“Grey Worm is a lucky name,” he’d said. “The name this one was born with was cursed. That was the name he had when he was taken as a slave. But Grey Worm is the name this one drew the day Daenerys Stormborn set him free.”

That is what Dany tells Jon, anyway. The Unsullied only speak Valyrian, but Dany has Missandei and Oberyn teach them the Common Tongue when they can. And when Dany has the time, she tries to teach Jon High Valyrian so that he can better communicate with the officers. 

Valyrian, at least, is easier to learn than Dothraki. The Common Tongue is derived from Valyrian, and though the finer points of the grammar and syntax evade him, Jon has no shortage of teachers. Dany, Oberyn, and Missandei are all fluent, and the Unsullied are patient even when he struggles. They, in turn, are eager to learn the Common Tongue from him. It is not unlike when he learned Dothraki, two peoples trying desperately to understand the other. 

As they draw nearer to Yunkai, Dany sends her Dothraki scouts ahead to see if the Yellow City knows they are coming.

They do; they have gathered an army of Yunkish slaves and two sellsword companies, the Stormcrows and the Second Sons. 

“I rode with the Second Sons in my youth,” Oberyn says, pleasantly surprised. 

“Then tell us how to get rid of them.”

“They can only be bought, I’m afraid, and they are loath to break a contract. That sort of thing is bad for business, you know. People want sellsword armies that keep their word. And yet, gold is the only sure way to buy loyalty.”

“Not the only way,” Jon argues, remembering how his aunt had won the freedom of the Unsullied, and how they had used that freedom to follow her into war.

Oberyn dips his head. “Not the only way,” he allows. “But the Second Sons are not slaves. They will not bow to Queen Daenerys because she offers them freedom. They will either fight her or give her their swords, and they will only give her their swords if she pays for them.”

“What if I paid them to leave?” Dany wonders. 

“That would be a hard thing indeed. If they turn tail and run because--and I mean no offense, Your Grace--a young girl told them to, they would become the laughingstock of Essos.”

Dany considers this, and then says, “I want to see this army for myself.”

“Then you shall.”

Jon, Jorah, Oberyn, and Ellaria ride with her up the sandstone ridge to see the Yunkish host. 

“Five thousand,” she guesses when they reach the crest.

“I’d say so.” Jorah points. “Those are sellswords on the flanks. Lances and mounted bowmen, with swords and axes for the close work. The Second Sons on the left wing, the Stormcrows to the right. About five hundred men apiece. See the banners?” 

Yunkai’s harpy grasps a whip and iron collar in her talons, but the sellswords fly their own standards beneath those of the city they serve: on the right, four crows between crossed thunderbolts, and on the left, a broken sword. 

“The Yunkai’i hold the center themselves,” Dany notes. “Are those slave soldiers they lead?” 

“In large part. But not the equal of Unsullied. Yunkai is known for training bed slaves, not warriors.” 

_ Bed slaves, _ Jon thinks with a twist of his stomach.  _ Like Doreah. But she was a slave in Lys, and Dany freed her. It’s different here. How many of these bed slaves will ever know a life outside their chains? _

“What say you?” Dany asks. “Can we defeat this army?” 

“Easily,” Jorah says. 

“But not bloodlessly.” 

“We might win a battle here, but at such cost we cannot take the city,” Jon observes.

“That is ever a risk,” says Jorah. “Astapor was complacent and vulnerable. Yunkai is forewarned.”

Dany bites her lip. “I don’t want to lose my army before we cross the Narrow Sea.”

“We don’t need Yunkai,  _ Khaleesi _ ,” Jorah says gently. “Taking this city will not bring you any closer to Westeros or the Iron Throne.”

“How many slaves are there in Yunkai?”

“Two hundred thousand,” Oberyn says. “If not more.”

“Then we have two hundred thousand reasons to take the city.”

Jon’s heart swells.  _ She is truly the prince that was promised, for Westeros, and for the rest of the world.  _

“The slavers like to talk,” she continues. “Send word that I will hear them this evening in my tent. And invite the captains of the sellsword companies to call on me as well. But not together. The Stormcrows at midday, the Second Sons two hours later.” 

“As you wish,” Jorah says. “But if they do not come—” 

“They’ll come. Men who fight for gold can’t afford to lose to a girl.”

She wheels her mare around, and Jon follows her down the slanting ridge. Already the camp is near finished. The Unsullied cannot sleep in an unfortified camp, so all around them is a deep ditch and sharpened logs that serve as spikes to protect the camp.

_ I have slept safer among the Unsullied than I have anywhere since leaving Winterfell. _

His heart aches for his old home, but he tries to put those yearning feelings behind him. Winterfell is not his home anymore. His home is wherever Dany is, and someday, that will be in King’s Landing. 

Both Targaryens bathe and change; Dany into a gown of pure white, and Jon into a black leather tunic over a bloodred shirt. Doreah, Irri, and Jhiqui lay down carpets and cushions in the pavilion, and Missandei lights a stick of incense to sweeten the air. The dragons, who enjoy the heat, bask in the sunlight, warmed by its rays.

“Missandei, what language will these Yunkai’i speak, Valyrian?”

“Yes, Your Grace. A different dialect than Astapor’s, yet close enough to understand. The slavers name themselves the Wise Masters.” 

“Wise?” Dany scoffs, scratching Viserion behind the horns. “We shall see how wise they are.”

The Stormcrows are the first to arrive, the three captains accompanied by Jorah and Oberyn. They claim to be equals in all things, despite their different backgrounds; one is a Ghiscari, one a Qartheen, and the third a Tyroshi.

“You would do well to take your rabble elsewhere,” says the Ghiscari, Prendahl na Ghezn, once they have been seated and offered refreshment. “You took Astapor by treachery, but Yunkai shall not fall so easily.” 

“Five hundred of your Stormcrows against ten thousand of my Unsullied,” says Dany without concern. “I am only a young girl and do not understand the ways of war, yet these odds seem poor to me.” 

“The Stormcrows do not stand alone.”

“Stormcrows do not stand at all. They fly, at the first sign of thunder. Perhaps you should be flying now. I have heard that sellswords are notoriously unfaithful. What will it avail you to be staunch, when the Second Sons change sides?” 

“That will not happen,” Prendahl insists. “And if it did, it would not matter. The Second Sons are nothing. We fight beside the stalwart men of Yunkai.” 

“You fight beside bed-boys armed with spears. Once battle is joined, do not think to ask for quarter. Join me now, however, and you shall keep the gold the Yunkai’i paid you and claim a share of the plunder besides, with greater rewards later when I come into my kingdom. Fight for the Wise Masters, and your wages will be death. Do you imagine that Yunkai will open its gates when my Unsullied are butchering you beneath the walls?” 

“Woman, you bray like an ass, and make no more sense.” 

Jon fingers his sword, but Dany only chuckles.

“Woman? Is that meant to insult me? I would return the slap, if I took you for a man. I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the Unburnt, Mother of Dragons,  _ khaleesi _ to Drogo’s riders, and queen of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros.” 

“What you are,” says Prendahl na Ghezn, “is a horselord’s whore. When we break you, I will breed you to my stallion.” 

Jon grips the pommel of his sword, but Strong Belwas draws his  _ arakh _ . “Strong Belwas will give his ugly tongue to the little queen, if she likes.” 

“No, Belwas. I have given these men my safe conduct.” She smiles. “Tell me this—are the Stormcrows slave or free?”

“We are a brotherhood of free men,” the Qartheen named Sallor the Bald declares. 

“Good.” Dany stands. “Go back and tell your brothers what I said, then. It may be that some of them would sooner sup on gold and glory than on death. I shall want your answer on the morrow.” 

The Stormcrow captains rise in unison. 

“Our answer is no,” says Prendahl na Ghezn. His fellows follow him out of the tent, but the Tyroshi named Daario Naharis glances back and inclines his head in polite farewell. 

Jon does not know what to make of that.

Two hours later the commander of the Second Sons arrives alone. 

“He is a Braavosi named Mero, but he calls himself the Titan’s Bastard,” Oberyn tells Dany as soon as they see his bushy red-gold beard coming down the path. “He will speak you crudely. Pay no mind to his insults; he only wants to upset you.”

“He will have to do more than insult me to upset me.”

“Martell, you fucking bastard!” Mero roars as he comes close. “Last I saw you, your balls hadn’t dropped!”

“Last I saw you, you were pissing yourself in battle.”

Mero roars with laughter and embraces the other man, who returns the embrace with a smile...but Jon does not miss the outline of a knife in his sleeve.

Mero tosses down his wine straightaway and turns to Dany. “I believe I fucked your twin sister in a pleasure house back in Lys. Or was it you?” 

“I think not. I would remember a man of such magnificence, I have no doubt,” she says dryly.

“Yes, that is so. No woman has ever forgotten the Titan’s Bastard.” He holds out his cup for more wine. “What say you take those clothes off and come sit on my lap? If you please me, I might bring the Second Sons over to your side.” 

“If you bring the Second Sons over to my side, I might not have you gelded.” 

He roars with laughter at this. “Little girl, another woman once tried to geld me with her teeth. She has no teeth now, but my sword is as long and thick as ever. Shall I take it out and show you?” 

“No need. After my eunuchs cut it off, I can examine it at my leisure.” Dany takes a sip of wine. She is unperturbed, but Jon would gladly kill the other man if she asked it of him. “It is true that I am only a young girl, and do not know the ways of war. Explain to me how you propose to defeat ten thousand Unsullied with your five hundred. Innocent as I am, these odds seem poor to me.” 

“The Second Sons have faced worse odds and won.” 

“The Second Sons have faced worse odds and  _ run _ . At Qohor, when the Three Thousand made their stand. Or do you deny it?” 

“That was many and more years ago, before the Second Sons were led by the Titan’s Bastard.” 

“So it is from you they get their courage?” Dany turns to Jon. “When the battle is joined, kill this one first.” 

“Gladly, Your Grace,” Jon says far too quickly.

“Of course,” she says to Mero, “you could run again. We will not stop you. Take your Yunkish gold and go.” 

“Had you ever seen the Titan of Braavos, foolish girl, you would know that it has no tail to turn.” 

“Then stay, and fight for me.” 

“You are worth fighting for, it is true,” the Braavosi says, “and I would gladly let you kiss my sword, if I were free. But I have taken Yunkai’s coin and pledged my holy word.” 

“Coins can be returned,” she reminds him. “I will pay you as much and more. I have other cities to conquer, and a whole kingdom awaiting me half a world away. Serve me faithfully, and the Second Sons need never seek hire again.” 

The Braavosi tugs on his thick red beard. “As much and more, and perhaps a kiss besides, eh? Or more than a kiss? For a man as magnificent as me?” He turns to Oberyn. “Have you tasted her tongue?”

“Enough, you old windbag,” Oberyn says lazily. “Will you fight for the dragon queen or not? No, no more jests about your sword and her tongue, they’re the same jests you told when I was a boy and I grow weary of them.”

“I shall have to think about it,” Mero says, more frankly than he has said anything.

“Can I have your answer on the morrow?” Dany asks. 

“You can. Can I have a flagon of this fine wine to take back to my captains?” 

“You may have a tun. It is from the cellars of the Good Masters of Astapor, and I have wagons full of it.” 

“Then give me a wagon. A token of your good regard.” 

“You have a big thirst.” 

“I am big all over. And I have many brothers. The Titan’s Bastard does not drink alone,  _ Khaleesi _ .” 

“A wagon it is, if you promise to drink to my health.” 

“Done!” he booms. “And done, and done! Three toasts we’ll drink you, and bring you an answer when the sun comes up.” 

But as soon as he is gone, Oberyn says, “Do not be misled by his manner, Your Grace. He will drink three toasts to your health tonight, and rape you on the morrow. The Second Sons are an old company, and not without valor, but under Mero they’ve turned near as bad as the Brave Companions. The man is as dangerous to his employers as to his foes. That’s why you find him out here. None of the Free Cities will hire him any longer.” 

“It is not his reputation that I want, it’s his five hundred horse. What of the Stormcrows, is there any hope there?” 

“No,” Oberyn says bluntly. “That Prendahl is Ghiscari by blood. Likely he had kin in Astapor. And Sallor will have heard about your time in Qarth. Daario Naharis may have been swayed if he was the Stormcrows’ only captain, but he is younger and fresher-faced than Prendahl and Sallor. They are equal in everything, yet they will overrule him every time.”

“A pity,” Dany sighs. “Well, perhaps we will not need to fight. Let us wait and hear what the Yunkai’i have to say.” 

The envoys from Yunkai arrive as the sun begins to set; fifty men on magnificent black horses and one on a great white camel. The fifty men hold back while the man on the white camel joins Dany and the others in the pavilion. He names himself Grazdan mo Eraz, and something about his smile reminds Jon of Kraznys.

“Ancient and glorious is Yunkai, the queen of cities,” he says when Dany invites him to speak. He speaks in the Common Tongue; as in Astapor, Dany pretends she does not understand Valyrian, to better make her enemies underestimate her. “Our walls are strong, our nobles proud and fierce, our common folk without fear. Ours is the blood of ancient Ghis, whose empire was old when Valyria was yet a squalling child. You were wise to sit and speak,  _ Khaleesi _ . You shall find no easy conquest here.” 

“Good. My Unsullied will relish a bit of a fight. I was told to blood them early.”

Grazdan shrugs. “If blood is what you wish, let it flow. I am told you have freed your eunuchs. Freedom means as much to an Unsullied as a hat to a haddock. Those who survive we shall enslave again, and use to retake Astapor from the rabble. We can make a slave of you as well, do not doubt it. There are pleasure houses in Lys and Tyrosh where men would pay handsomely to bed the last Targaryen.” 

“It is good to see you know who I am,” Dany says mildly. “Yet I am not the last Targaryen. I am joined by my nephew, the son of my brother Rhaegar, and he would kill any man who dared to lay a hand on me.”

“It would be my pleasure,” Jon says with an ironic smile.

Grazdan spreads his hands in a conciliatory manner. “My apologies, Son of Rhaegar. And to you, Daenerys Stormborn. It is true that you committed savageries in Astapor, but we Yunkai’i are a most forgiving people. Your quarrel is not with us, Your Grace. Why squander your strength against our mighty walls when you will need every man to regain your father’s throne in far Westeros? Yunkai wishes you only well in that endeavor. And to prove the truth of that, I have brought you a gift.” He claps his hands, and two of his slaves come forward bearing a heavy cedar chest bound in bronze and gold. “Fifty thousand golden marks. Yours, as a gesture of friendship from the Wise Masters of Yunkai. Gold given freely is better than plunder bought with blood, surely? So I say to you, Daenerys Targaryen, take this chest, and go.” 

At a nod from Dany, Jon opens the lid of the chest. It’s full of gold coins that shine brightly in the light; new minted, most of them, stamped with a stepped pyramid on one face and the harpy of Ghis on the other. 

“Very pretty. I wonder how many chests like this I shall find when I take your city?” Dany says innocently.

Grazdan chuckles. “None, for that you shall never do.” 

“I have a gift for you as well.” She kicks the chest shut with one tiny slippered foot. “Three days. On the morning of the third day, send out your slaves. All of them. Every man, woman, and child shall be given a weapon, and as much food, clothing, coin, and goods as he or she can carry. These they shall be allowed to choose freely from among their masters’ possessions, as payment for their years of servitude. When all the slaves have departed, you will open your gates and allow my Unsullied to enter and search your city, to make certain none remain in bondage. If you do this, Yunkai will not be burned or plundered, and none of your people shall be molested. The Wise Masters will have the peace they desire, and will have proved themselves wise indeed. What say you?” 

Grazdan stares at her. “I say, you are mad.” 

“Am I?” Dany shrugs and says, “ _ Dracarys _ .” 

The dragons answer with jets of flame, one of which catches the hem of Grazdan’s  _ tokar _ . Golden marks spill across the carpets as he stumbles over the chest, shouting curses and beating at his legs until Aggo flings a flagon of water over him to douse the flames. 

“You swore I should have safe conduct!” Grazdan shrieks. 

“I did...but my dragons made no such promises.” She wrinkles her nose as an unmistakable smell fills the pavilion. “You’ve soiled yourself. Take your gold and go, and see that the Wise Masters hear my message.” 

Grazdan mo Eraz points a finger. “You shall rue this arrogance, whore. These little lizards will not keep you safe, I promise you. We will fill the air with arrows if they come within a league of Yunkai. Do you think it is so hard to kill a dragon?” 

“Harder than to kill a slaver. Three days, Grazdan. Tell them. By the end of the third day, I will be in Yunkai, whether you open your gates for me or no.” 

As soon as the Yunkai’i have fled the camp, Dany switches to Dothraki. 

“An hour past midnight should be time enough.” 

“Time for what?” asks Rakharo.

“To mount our attack.” 

Jon opens his mouth in surprise. “You told the sellswords—” 

“—that I wanted their answers on the morrow. I made no promises about tonight. The Stormcrows will be arguing about my offer. The Second Sons will be drunk on the wine I gave Mero. And the Yunkai’i believe they have three days. We will take them under cover of this darkness.” 

“They will have scouts watching for us.” 

“And in the dark, they will see hundreds of campfires burning,” said Dany. “If they see anything at all.” 

“ _ Khaleesi _ ,” says Jhogo, “I will deal with these scouts. They are no riders, only slavers on horses.” 

“Just so,” she agrees. “I think we should attack from three sides.” In Valyrian, she gives Grey Worm rapidfire commands that Jon does not quite understand. He does not need to; he trusts his queen utterly and completely.


	39. CASSANA II

The bells toll slowly and sadly as the litter carries her to the Great Sept of Baelor.

Shireen and Myrcella sit with her, quiet but comforting. As much as they can be, anyway. There is only so much their presence can do, only so much grief and fear they can alleviate. 

In less than a fortnight, Cassie has lost almost everyone. Her mother and uncle and cousins were sent away without so much as a farewell, and now her father is dead. 

_ Dead. _

She had always known this day would come. Once it became obvious her mother was not going to have anymore children, that there would be no Baratheon sons to take the Iron Throne, those around her had quietly prepared her for the day her father would die and she would take up his mantle.

She’d thought she had years before that day. She’d thought she would be married with children, that she’d have some experience leading, that her mother and her father’s old Hand would be there to help.

She hadn’t expected to be thirteen, still a child and without a mother or a Hand.

Grand Maester Pycelle ruled that illness had killed her father...but Cassie doesn’t believe it. Someone poisoned him, just as someone poisoned Jon Arryn. Pycelle is old, and most likely his wits are growing dull. 

_ But who would have poisoned him? _ she wonders.  _ Who would want my father dead? _

There’s only one person she can think of, but she doesn’t dare believe her mother could be capable of such a thing. 

_ But they say it was she and Uncle Ned who killed Jon Arryn because he knew their secret. Did they kill my father, too? Did they send someone to poison my father and leave the throne ripe for the taking? _

The litter sways to a halt, and Cassie tries to put such thoughts from her head. Uncle Stannis helps her out, handing her onto the cobblestones just before the Great Sept. The stairs seem an impossible climb, and she’s grateful when Uncle Stannis holds out his arm. 

Courtiers line the way inside, all murmuring their condolences.

“Your Grace,” they all call her, bowing their heads as they part like water beneath an oar. 

She says nothing to them, only lets Uncle Stannis lead her to the front row of chairs. He sits beside her, and when her hand begin to tremble, he takes it in his and squeezes gently.

The High Septon drones on for such a long time that, despite her grief and her tears, Cassie nearly falls asleep. It’s longer than any speech she’s ever heard before, but she supposes that makes sense; kings don’t die every day, after all. Lords and ladies, mothers and fathers, children and old people die all the time, but kings? 

He is not the same High Septon as the one who ruled when the Mad King was killed. That one had been put to the sword by the Lannisters. This new one is not loved by the people. Mother always said it was because he had more money than a godly man should.

Her stomach turns whenever she thinks of her mother. In truth, some part of her had thought to ask her mother to come back when Maester Pycelle sent the raven to Riverrun...but Uncle Stannis and Uncle Renly had been quick to shoot down  _ that _ idea.

“She is a traitor, and your father banished her for a reason,” Uncle Stannis had said curtly.

Uncle Renly had been gentler. “I know you love her and miss her,” he’d said patiently. “But it would not do for her to come back now. She actively plots to put your father’s enemy on the throne, the sister of the man who started the war. Your people would never forgive you, and she may seek to use you to crown the Targaryens.”

_ My mother would never use me, _ she’d wanted to say...but is that true? Hadn’t she lied to her for thirteen years? Hadn’t she raised Cassie to be a queen only to crown another?

_ Did she ever really love me? _

It’s this thought, somehow, more than anything that makes a fresh wave of tears overtake her in the sept. She buries her face in Ser Davos’s handkerchief, trying to muffle her cries. 

When the ceremony is over, everyone leaves the sept so that Cassie may say her final goodbyes. The Kingsguard will stand vigil, and in the morning, the Silent Sisters will bear his body away to Storm’s End, where he’s always wanted to be buried.

_ Not here. Not in King’s Landing. He didn’t even like living here, really, and he’d hate being dead here. _

He looks pale and strange in the sept’s light. The rosiness of his cheeks is gone, and his wild beard has been combed and greased. It doesn’t help that he wears those horrible stones on his eyes. Beneath them, he could be anyone. 

Uncle Stannis’s measured footsteps herald his coming. He comes to stand beside her, hands clasped behind his back as he waits an appropriate amount of time before speaking.

“Your Grace,” he says carefully, “I know you are still in mourning, but there is much to discuss.”

She sighs. “I know.”

“The small council has named me your Regent. You will still need a Hand.”

“Why can’t you be my Hand?” she asks glumly. 

“Because I am your Regent.”

She’s quiet, staring at her father. “I don’t know who else could be Hand. Who can I trust? Not my mother. Not my Stark uncles and cousins, apparently. There’s Uncle Renly, but he’d be a terrible Hand.”

“He would be.”

She hesitates. “He mentioned...Tywin Lannister…”

She can hear her uncle’s teeth grinding. “Tywin Lannister is...a possibility. But not one that I would consider, Your Grace.”

She looks up at him. “Why not?”

Uncle Stannis takes a moment to choose his words. “Tywin Lannister rules with an iron fist, it’s true, but he is not well-liked.”

“You always said that sort of thing doesn’t matter.”

“I did,” he agrees. “But that’s the difference between the lord of a few small houses and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Men do not like me, nor do they like Tywin Lannister. If we are both ruling the country in your name, they will not like you, either. Your Hand must be well-liked.”

She bites her lip. “Who would you recommend? Who do you trust?”

“There are few men I trust in the realm, and none of them would be appropriate choices.”

“But  _ who _ ?” 

He sighs. “Ser Davos Seaworth.”

“The Onion Knight?”

“A smuggler, and the lords and ladies you rely upon are sure to remember it. Alester Florent is another man I trust, but my own lady wife is a Florent, and people would suspect naming my wife’s kin to such a high office would be favoritism on my part. Yohn Royce is another trustworthy man, and well respected in the Vale. Now that Lysa Arryn has fled back there, Lord Royce serving as your Hand may help you quell any unrest there. A Northern lord would strengthen your case against the Starks, but you’d be hard-pressed to find a lord who’d serve a southerner over a Stark.”

“I’m a Stark, too,” she reminds him. 

“A Stark, and a Baratheon, and what’s more, queen now that your father is dead.”

She rests her head on her father’s chest, longing to hear his heart beat once more. “I’m so tired, uncle. Already I am tired.”

“You will always be tired. That is what it means to wear the crown.” He rests a hand on her back. “We will find a Hand for you. You will come of age in three years, and then you may choose another Hand if you wish. The Hand we choose now need only be someone we know is loyal to us--or loyal to the gold we pay them. I do not like buying men, but sometimes, it is the only sure way of keeping them. Three years will pass quickly.”

Cassie looks at her father.  _ How quickly did twenty years pass for you? How steep was the toll they took on you? _

“I leave it to you, then. For now.” 

He pulls back, bowing his head. “Your Grace.”

_ Your Grace.  _ She doesn’t know if she’ll ever get used to hearing that. 

.

There is no time to mourn in those next few days. There is so much business to attend to, documents that need her signature and seal, conversations and appointments that must be made. 

She has no privacy, no relaxation. With her being the only member left of the royal family, the Kingsguard seems to be constantly around her, breathing down her neck. Even her room is taken from her, and her things are moved into Father’s old room. It’s big and cavernous and frightening, and no matter how pretty her maids make it, no matter how much incense they burn and scented oils they sprinkle over her bedding and her clothes, the room seems to smell of death. 

_ How many kings have died in this room? _ she wonders. Nearly all of them starting with Maegor.  _ Except for Aerys, _ she reminds herself.  _ Aerys died in the throne room, stabbed in the back by Jaime Lannister.  _

Every night when she lies in the enormous bed, staring at the canopy, one thought keeps running through her head:  _ Who killed my father? _

She hears the whispers in court, and she knows they all think it was her mother. There’s no way to prove it, of course, but it’s the obvious answer. Killing Father makes it easier for Daenerys Targaryen to take the Iron Throne...but even so, Cassie cannot believe her mother capable of such a thing.

_ How much did she love or hate Father? How much was I blind to? _

She’d always known Father had had other women. She’d always known about his bastards, and how her mother would go visit them. It meant nothing, everyone told her. Kings do this sort of thing. But perhaps her mother was not as nonchalant about it as she seemed. Perhaps she’d felt trapped in marriage to a brute.

_ But Father wasn’t a brute. He loved my mother. _

...did he, though? How could he have loved her mother and taken pleasure from other women?

She’s heard other whispers, too, whispers that her mother took Lady Melisandre into her bed. The two women are close, it’s true, but Cassie had never given much thought to the red priestess. She was just another acolyte of the red god, just like Thoros of Myr, sent by her order to convert Mother and Father, and Mother was always taking in unusual women. But if Mother found solace in another’s arms while Father had his mistresses…

It doesn’t make sense, none of it. Even if the love was truly gone from their marriage (and Father had said that night that even then, he still loved her), was that really enough to kill Father? 

But who else would have done it? Who else benefits from Father’s death? 

The Baratheon words are Ours is the Fury.  _ Well, _ Cass thinks,  _ they will know my fury when I have learned the truth. _

.

The morning of her coronation, Shireen and Myrcella, Cassie’s newly-appointed ladies-in-waiting, help her dress. Her gown is black samite bordered in yellow, and blazoned across her chest is the Baratheon stag. A train of gold trimmed in black fur gives her a queenly look--or so she hopes.

_ I am still a child, and they all know it.  _

All the court watches as she enters the throne room, flanked by the Kingsguard. She holds her head up high, not looking at anyone--only the throne. Her steps are slow and measured, and when she reaches the dais, she stands one step below the High Septon and turns to face the crowd. 

Their eyes frighten her, so she looks beyond them, trying to listen as the High Septon calls upon the gods to bless her--the Father to grant her wisdom, the Mother to grant her mercy, the Maiden to protect her from corruption, the Warrior to grant her courage, the Smith to grant her strength, the Crone to grant her foresight, and the Stranger to show her the path that she must walk. 

“In the Light of the Seven,” he drones, holding the crown over her head, “I now proclaim Cassana of the House Baratheon, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, and Lady of the Seven Kingdoms.” He eases the crown onto her head, and instantly, Cassie feels the weight of a hundred kings on her shoulders. 

“Long may she reign!”


	40. JON XVI

Jon stays with Dany through the night. She’s nervous, and truth be told, so is he. But she’s faced worse odds before and came out unharmed. The slavers of Yunkai will not be her undoing.

It’s near midnight when Jorah comes barrelling past Strong Belwas. 

“The Unsullied caught one of the sellswords trying to sneak into the camp.” 

“A spy?” Dany asks, concern plain on her face. 

“He claims to come bearing gifts. It’s the Tyroshi from the Stormcrows.” 

_ Daario Naharis. _

“That one. I’ll hear him, then.” 

Jorah disappears, and a moment later, brings in the Tyroshi. Most Tyroshi, Jon is told, are bright and gaudy enough to put a peacock to shame. Not so this one. Daario Naharis is as plain as any common footsoldier, save for the dagger at his hilt; the handle is a naked woman

_ Rogue, _ Jon thinks irritably.

“Khaleesi,” Daario Naharis exclaims as he enters carrying a heavy sack, “I bring gifts and glad tidings. The Stormcrows are yours, and so is Daario Naharis.” 

Jon and Dany exchange surprised looks. Could this be a trap? 

“What do Prendahl na Ghezn and Sallor say of this?” Dany asks. 

“Little.” Daario upends the sack, and the heads of Sallor the Bald and Prendahl na Ghezn spill out upon the carpets. “My gifts to the dragon queen.” 

Viserion sniffs the blood leaking from Prendahl’s neck, and lets loose a gout of flame that takes the dead man full in the face, blackening and blistering his bloodless cheeks. Drogon and Rhaegal stir at the smell of roasted meat. 

“You did this?” Dany asks queasily. 

“None other.” Daario, surprisingly, seems undaunted by the dragons eating the heads of his brothers in arms. 

“Why?” 

“Because you are so beautiful.” 

Jon rolls his eyes towards the heavens. Good  _ gods. _

“Prendahl talked too much and said too little,” Daario continues. “And Sallor picked his nose as if his snot was gold. I count no day as lived unless I have loved a woman, slain a foeman, and eaten a fine meal...and the days that I have lived are as numberless as the stars in the sky. I make of slaughter a thing of beauty, and many a tumbler and fire dancer has wept to the gods that they might be half so quick, a quarter so graceful. I would tell you the names of all the men I have slain, but before I could finish your dragons would grow large as castles, the walls of Yunkai would crumble into yellow dust, and winter would come and go and come again.” 

To Jon’s horror, Dany laughs.  _ Seven hells, _ he thinks,  _ she’s taken with the man. _

“Jon,” she says, “what do you think of Daario Naharis?”

Jon studies him, and as reluctant as he is to admit it, he believes the man is sincere. “I believe he means to fight for you. Oberyn has told us what it means for a sellsword to turn back on their contract. Daario Naharis must know the risk and be willing to take it.”

“Oberyn?”

“I agree with Jon,” Oberyn says. “He risks not only his future employment, but also the wrath of the men following him. He is perhaps not the wisest sellsword I’ve ever met, but he will fight for you. For now.”

“Draw your sword and swear it to my service,” she orders the sellsword.

In a blink, Daario’s  _ arakh _ is free of its sheath. He bows to her, yet keeps his chin tilted up, cocksure and arrogant. “My sword is yours. My life is yours. My love is yours. My blood, my body, my songs, you own them all. I live and die at your command, fair queen.” 

“Then live,” Dany says, “and fight for me tonight.” 

“That would not be wise, my queen,” Jorah says coldly. “Keep this one here under guard until the battle’s fought and won.” 

She considers a moment, then shakes her head. “If he can give us the Stormcrows, surprise is certain.” 

“And if he betrays you, surprise is lost.” 

Dany looks down at the sellsword. “He won’t.” 

“How can you know that?” 

She points to the lumps of blackened flesh the dragons are consuming, bite by bloody bite. “I would call that proof of his sincerity. Daario Naharis, have your Stormcrows ready to strike the Yunkish rear when my attack begins. Can you get back safely?” 

“If they stop me, I will say I have been scouting, and saw nothing.” The sellsword bows again and leaves. 

“Your Grace,” Jorah says at once, “that was a mistake. We know nothing of this man—” 

“We know that he is a great fighter.” 

“A great talker, you mean.” 

“He brings us the Stormcrows.”

“Five hundred sellswords of uncertain loyalty.” 

“All loyalties are uncertain in such times as these,” Dany reminds him.

“Daenerys, I am thrice your age,” Jorah says. “I have seen how false men are. Very few are worthy of trust, and Daario Naharis is not one of them.” 

“You should address her as  _ Your Grace _ ,” Ellaria says coolly.

Jorah looks chastened. “Your Grace, I apologize.”

“Jon and Oberyn both trust Daario Naharis,” Dany points out. “I know you mean to look after me, Ser Jorah, and that is why you are the first of my Queensguard. But you must trust me in this, thrice my age or no.”

Jorah bows his head. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Now go see to the Unsullied; you have a battle to win.”

He bows again and leaves.

“That one is in love with you,” Oberyn says bluntly.

Dany wilts in her seat. “I know.”

“And you will never love him back.”

“No. Not in that way.” She sighs, getting up to pour a cup of wine. “I will not be able to sleep tonight, not with all of this going on. Prince Oberyn, you knew my brother Rhaegar. Tell me more of him. Viserys said that our brother won many tourneys.” 

Oberyn reclines against the pillows, pillowing his head on Ellaria’s breast. “Your brother spoke true. Prince Rhaegar’s prowess was unquestioned, but he seldom entered the lists. He never loved the song of swords the way that Robert did, or Jaime Lannister. It was something he had to do, a task the world had set him. He did it well, for he did everything well. That was his nature. But he took no joy in it. Men said that he loved his harp much better than his lance.” 

“He won  _ some _ tourneys, surely?” 

“When he was young, His Grace rode brilliantly in a tourney at Storm’s End, defeating Lord Steffon Baratheon, Lord Jason Mallister, a mystery knight who proved to be the infamous Simon Toyne, chief of the kingswood outlaws...and me.”

“You rode against him?” Dany asks, delighted.

“I did. We were both boys in our first flush of youth. Little did I know what the future would hold for us.” He drinks from his cup. “He did not go undefeated, though; he broke twelve lances against Ser Arthur Dayne that day, and the Sword of the Morning unhorsed Prince Rhaegar in the final tilt.” 

“But what tourneys did my brother  _ win _ ?” 

Oberyn’s eyes turn cold. “He won the greatest tourney of them all, I suppose.”

“Which was that?” Dany demands, but Jon already knows what’s coming. 

“Dany…” he starts to say weakly. “Let’s not speak of that tourney.”

“No, let’s not,” Ellaria agrees quickly. “Your Grace, pray excuse Prince Oberyn--”

But Oberyn is not so easily swayed. “The tourney at Harrenhal, Your Grace, where he crowned Lyanna Stark the Queen of Love and Beauty.”

Dany looks chastened. “I’m sorry, my lord, I had not thought of that.”

“Elia was there, his wife, and yet Rhaegar gave the crown to the Stark girl, and later stole her away from her betrothed. How could he do that?” 

“I do not know,” Dany admits softly. “I never knew my brother.”

Oberyn shakes his head. “He won the tourney that day, Your Grace, and the kingdom fell apart because of it.” 

Dany swallows. “Viserys said once that it was my fault, for being born too late. If I had been born more timely, he said, Rhaegar would have married me instead of Elia, and it would all have come out different. If Rhaegar had been happy in his wife, he would not have...” 

“Raped my mother,” Jon says unhappily.

She touches his hand. “I’m sorry.”

“I am not certain it was in Rhaegar to be happy,” Oberyn admits. “There was a melancholy to Prince Rhaegar, a sense...of doom. He was born in grief, my queen, and that shadow hung over him all his days.” 

“It was the shadow of Summerhall that haunted him, was it not?” 

“Yes. And yet Summerhall was the place the prince loved best. He would go there from time to time, with only his harp for company. Even the knights of the Kingsguard did not attend him there. He liked to sleep in the ruined hall, beneath the moon and stars, and whenever he came back he would bring a song. When you heard him play his high harp with the silver strings and sing of twilights and tears and the death of kings, you could not but feel that he was singing of himself and those he loved.” 

They’re quiet for a long moment, each considering their memories and knowledge of Rhaegar. Oberyn is the only person here who knew him, perhaps Ellaria met him a time or two, but Jon and Dany will only ever think of him as a figure shrouded in mystery. 

They are all still in the pavilion, drowsing, when the dragons shatter the stillness with their roars. Jon hops to his feet, wiping the sleep from his eyes. Outside, he hears Strong Belwas bellow something, and then other voices, and the sounds of many horses. 

“Jon, go see who-- ” 

Jorah enters, dusty and spattered with blood but otherwise unharmed. He goes to one knee before Dany and says, “Your Grace, I bring you victory. It was just as you said: they did not believe until it was too late. The Stormcrows turned their cloaks, the slaves broke, and the Second Sons were too drunk to fight. Two hundred dead, Yunkai’i for the most part. Their slaves threw down their spears and ran, and their sellswords yielded. We have several thousand captives.” 

“Our own losses?” 

“A dozen, if that many.” 

Dany smiles. “Rise, my good brave bear. Was Grazdan taken? Or the Titan’s Bastard?” 

“Grazdan went to Yunkai to deliver your terms.” Jorah gets to his feet. “Mero fled, once he realized the Stormcrows had turned. I have men hunting him. He shouldn’t escape us long.” 

“Very well,” Dany says. “Sellsword or slave, spare all those who will pledge me their faith. If enough of the Second Sons will join us, keep the company intact. Prince Oberyn, you once rode with them, perhaps you can talk some sense into them.” Her face wavers. “And...Daario Naharis?”

The happy look slides from Jorah’s face, and before he can answer, the Tyroshi himself enters, a bundle over his shoulder. He is also covered in blood, but he goes to one knee as if it were nothing and unfurls Yunkai’s harpy banner. 

“The city is yours, my queen,” he declares.

Dany beams.

.

In the morning, they wait outside the city gates. Smoke from the siege fires still hangs low over the city, and thousands of men, women, and children in slave collars pour out of the gates. As they pass, Missandei tells them who it was who freed them. A man with a child on his shoulder calls, “ _ Mhysa, Mhysa! _ ” Soon others are taking up the call, too.

“What are they shouting?” Jon asks, wondering if this is some Valyrian word he’s not yet learned.

“It is Ghiscari, the old pure tongue. It means ‘Mother’.”

They reach for her, frightening her silver, pushing past her bloodriders and Strong Belwas, but Dany only smiles.

“It is like my dream,” she tells Jon. “The one I saw in the House of the Undying.” She slides from her silver, wading into the sea of people. When Jon sees her again, she is flying, borne on the hands of the freed people of Yunkai. 


	41. LYANNA XVIII

“This changes nothing.”

“This changes  _ everything. _ ” Lyanna paces up and down her room, worrying a hangnail until she draws blood. “Robert was supposed to be on the Iron Throne when Jon and Daenerys returned, not Cassie. He was supposed to bend the knee or die fighting it, and Cassie was supposed to be with me. When Jon and Daenerys return, is she going to bend the knee or die fighting it?”

She can hardly believe it. Cassie, her little girl, her perfect little girl, a queen that must make an impossible choice.

_ Jon will spare her, _ she thinks...but what if Cassie is not willing to spare him? What if she resents him and her mother, and would rather die facing a Targaryen than bend the knee to her mother’s firstborn? 

_ She cannot be as stupid as that. She is Robert’s daughter, but she is mine, too.  _

Not for the first time, she considers riding for King’s Landing. Yes, she’s a traitor, but she’s still Cassie’s mother. It was Robert who sent her away, not Cassie. Surely Cassie would let her come back. She needs her mother, now more than ever. 

“I should go to her.”

“You should do no such thing,” Melisandre says firmly. “Even if she was willing to let you come back, those around her would not be. She is too young to rule alone, and her regent will never let you set foot in the city without putting your head on a spike. You must ride further North, my queen, and wait out the storm.”

Lyanna wavers. “But...what happens when Jon and Daenerys come here?”

“Your son is a good man, and the queen he serves is a good woman. They will not kill a child who sits on the throne. They are not Robert.”

Robert. He would have killed Cassie, if he’d been the returning king and she the girl child who stood in his way. 

_ Jon is not like that. He must not be like that. _

“If it comes to it, the small council will let you mediate between the two factions. They are both your children, and who better to help them negotiate? Cassana may be young, but even she will understand the importance of saving her people, just as Jon and Daenerys will understand the importance of sparing a child’s life.”

She’s right, and Lyanna knows it...but it doesn’t make her any less worried. “Even so, Cassie’s reign will never be uncontested. A woman has never ruled in her own right before, let own a young girl. Stannis will likely rule as her regent, being her male next of kin, and many will say he ought to rule even after she comes of age.”

“Jon and Daenerys will be here before that.”

“What if they aren’t? They’ve been across the sea for so long now. How much longer until they are here?”

“Have patience, my queen,” Melisandre soothes. “They will be here soon.”

“But  _ when _ ?”

“When it is their time,” she says firmly. 

“I can’t wait that long.”

“You can, and you must. You must go North and have your brother’s men make ready. You already have Dorne and the North and the Riverlands, and now you must secure the other kingdoms. The Crownlands, Westerlands, the Reach, the Vale, the Iron Islands...though something tells me none of these will submit as easily as the North.”

“No?”

Melisandre shakes her head, going to the brazier she always keeps burning. “No. Look, my queen.” 

Reluctantly, Lyanna stands before the brazier, watching the flames. 

“See?” Melisandre asks. 

Lyanna  _ does _ see. There is conflict in the Seven Kingdoms, that much she knew, but there is more to come. And it’s not just in the Seven Kingdoms themselves.

“Is that...the Wall?”

“The Wall, and the lands that lie beyond it. Conflict brews there, too.”

_ The Others. _ Are they already moving? Gathering their numbers and marching south? Will Benjen let the wildlings through? How long before the enemy is at the gate?

Lyanna shivers, suddenly cold despite the fire. “I will go with my brother to Winterfell, and from there, to the Wall. Perhaps I can see these creatures for myself.”

“You will see plenty of them when the Long Night has come again,” Melisandre warns her. 

“But how can I tell my son and his aunt to defeat an enemy even I have not yet laid eyes upon? No, I will go north. Benjen will look after me.”

Melisandre bows her head. “If that is your wish...but you must know that I will be coming with you.”

“I know,” Lyanna says fondly. “I would expect nothing less.”

.

The Starks make ready to ride North--all except Catelyn. She is riding east to the Vale, where she hopes to persuade her sister Lysa to their cause.

Personally, Lyanna is glad it’s Catelyn going and not her; she doubts very much Lysa would be willing to speak to Lyanna. But perhaps Catelyn can convince her that it wasn’t the Starks who killed Jon Arryn. Perhaps she can explain that it was Littlefinger, that they would never kill Jon, that they must all band together now for the real war. 

Ned is unhappy about it, Lyanna knows, but he bites back his disappointment. He loves his wife and missed her in their brief time apart, and he will miss her when they part again...but he knows Catelyn must bring the Vale to their side, and Lysa will not be willing to listen if Ned or Lyanna appears at the Eyrie. 

“Perhaps you could take Sansa with you,” Ned tentatively suggests over breakfast.

“Sansa? What reason has she to go to the Vale?”

“To keep you company,” he says, but it only takes a moment for Catelyn to suss out the true meaning.

“You mean, you are afraid of your own daughter’s wrath.”

“She has a temper, Cat.”

“She is a child,” Catelyn dismisses. “And it will be safer for her in Winterfell than anywhere else, even the Eyrie. Perhaps  _ especially _ the Eyrie. No, you will take the children.”

“Except for me,” Bran protests.

She smiles at him. “Yes, except for you.”

Edmure had agreed to take the boy as his squire. That means a lot to Bran, who had been brokenhearted to be removed from Robert’s service. He will do well as Edmure’s squire, Lyanna’s sure; he has an eagerness to serve, and a wisdom beyond his years that will make him a useful asset to his new lord.

Catelyn thinks. “On second thought, perhaps I should take Rickon with me.”

“Rickon?”

“He is close enough in age to Robin that they may get along,” she suggests. “Lysa kept him close by her in King’s Landing, but perhaps she will be more relaxed in the Eyrie. It would be good for Robin to make friends, and good, too, for Robin to have fond memories of his Northern cousins when the time comes. And, truth be told, I would be glad of a direwolf’s company on the road.”

Ned considers. “Very well. I still think you could take Sansa with you.”

“Don’t be such a child, Ned, she won’t  _ bite _ .”

Ned doesn’t look convinced. “War was easier than daughters,” he protests.

“Wait until it’s time for them to marry,” Lyanna says cheerfully.

Ned groans. 

.

The night before they leave finds Lyanna pacing restlessly in her room. Her ladies have packed all her things and are sleeping in their own chambers now, but Lyanna cannot find rest. Not even Melisandre had been able to soothe her to sleep.

_ My poor daughter, _ Lyanna thinks.  _ Does she think I’m abandoning her? Am I? Will she ever forgive me? _

These thoughts are keeping her awake when a bleary-eyed Dacey slips into her room.

“Pardon, Your Grace,” she says sleepily. “I thought you may have been asleep…”

“I’m wide awake. What is it, Dacey?”

“Woman named Ros is here for you. Melisandre said she’s a friend.”

“Send her in,” Lyanna commands at once.

“Yes, my queen.” Dacey disappears, and a moment later, Ros is standing in her room. She’s wearing more clothes than Lyanna’s ever seen her in, yet even so the deep laces of her bodice indicate that she wears no small clothes. Her cloak is travel-stained, her hair mussed with wind.

“Your Grace,” she says softly, curtsying.

“You came,” Lyanna says, surprised at how thick her throat has become. 

“I wanted to before, but I had to do something first.”

“And has it...been done?”

Ros gives her a small smile. “Littlefinger is dead, my queen.”

It takes a moment for Lyanna to understand her meaning.

_ Dead. _

“You killed him,” she says in amazement.

“It wasn’t hard, really. He trusts me more than most of the other girls; I go in and out of his house all the time. The back way, mind you, so no one respectable sees me coming. He doesn’t have any guards posted in the back way.”

Lyanna reaches for her, taking Ros’s hands in hers. “They said one of his women strangled him in his sleep.”

“They said true.” Ros’s smile falters. “I’m sorry it took me so long. If I’d known...I should’ve killed him sooner, before he could’ve revealed your secret to Lysa Arryn.”

“It  _ was _ him, then?”

“He never said directly, but it wasn’t hard to put two and two together. He knew your secret, it was the poisoned wine meant for him that went missing...I should’ve acted sooner. If I had, you’d still be in King’s Landing.”

Lyanna shakes her head. “It was my own fault. The fact that you killed him at all...Ros, if you only knew how much that means to me…”

Ros touches her cheek. “I’d do anything to make you happy.”

Lyanna swallows. “Then kiss me.”

Ros does, her lips soft and her tongue sweet as summerwine. She kisses Lyanna until she’s weak in the knees (she who was the Knight of the Laughing Tree, she who survived the Tower of Joy, she who was Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, brought to her knees by a whore from Winter Town), and then Ros pushes her gently onto the bed and climbs over her. 

Lyanna was right--Ros  _ isn’t _ wearing any smallclothes. 


	42. THEON IV

True to her word, Asha takes Theon and Robb to the Marches. She doesn’t dare go too near a port lest anyone see the Greyjoy kraken and make trouble, but she does get close enough to land so that her men can row them ashore. 

Theon waits by the rail, watching as a black basalt castle rises up in the distance. Something about it makes him feel that it has seen many things. 

“What’s that?” he asks one of Asha’s men.

“That? Blackhaven, seat of House Dondarrion.”

Dondarrion. Like that redheaded prick from King’s Landing. Theon frowns. “Oh.”

“Dondarrion?” Robb echoes. “Like that lord Jeyne Poole was so enamored with? What was his name...Deric?”

“Yes,” Theon lies. “Deric Dondarrion.”

“That’s a stupid name.”

“It is,” Theon agrees warmly. “A very stupid name.”

Robb glances at him out of the corner of his eye and mumbles something.

“What was that?”

“I said...Jeyne Dondarrion has a nice ring to it.”

“Fuck off.”

“What are we talking about?” Asha asks, striding across the deck to join them.

“Nothing,” Theon says at the exact moment Robb says, “Theon’s lady love.”

“Fuck off,” Theon says again.

Asha grins. “You mean that little girl who seduced you?”

“She’s not a little girl, and she  _ didn’t _ seduce me.” 

If you say so.” Her smile falters. “This is as far as I go. Qarl and Tristifer will row you to shore.”

“Thank you,” Theon says sincerely. 

Asha looks as if she wants to say something...and then, to his surprise and delight, she throws her arms around him. “Don’t die so far from the sea, little brother.”

He only hugs her back, speechless for once in his life.

When she pulls back a long moment later, she says, “What is dead may never die.”

“What is dead may never die,” he echoes.

She turns to look at Robb. “Look after him, Stark. Someone has to.”

“I will,” Robb promises.

She stoops to scratch Grey Wind’s ears and give his snout a kiss before straightening up. “Well, off with you, then.”

Qarl the Maid and Tristifer Botley row Theon, Robb, and Grey Wind to shore. They disembark on a pebbly beach and climb a narrow footpath up the sloping cliffside. By the time they reach the flat plains of the Marches, Asha’s ship is setting sail, heading east for the open ocean. 

_ Will I ever see her again? _ Theon wonders.  _ Should I have stayed with her? _

But he looks at Robb and knows that he made the right choice. Robb needs him. Asha can more than take of herself.

“I wonder if there’s a village near Blackhaven,” Robb wonders aloud as they begin their trek. Grey Wind, happy to be on firm ground again, trots off across the plain. “We’ll need horses.”

“There’s always a village near a keep.”

“True. But will they have horses to sell?”

“We could steal two of Beric’s,” Theon says savagely.

“I thought his name was Eric?”

.

The village of Blackhaven, as it turns out, does  _ not _ have any horses--none their owners are willing to part with, anyway. What few horses there are are needed, and their owners will not part with them without a substantial amount of gold.

“Perhaps we  _ should _ steal two of Beric’s horses,” Theon says, half in jest and half serious. 

“We can walk,” Robb protests.

“Walking will add weeks to our journey. You need to be North  _ now _ . Besides, we’ll be easier sport for thieves, and easier to catch if the king’s men come after us.”

Robb hesitates. “I suppose you’re right. But how exactly do you propose we steal two horses? Especially from a lord?”

Theon considers. “Well...you’d have to trust me…”

“Oh, gods.”

.

When night has fallen and what few lads in the stables are barely stirring, the long, low bay of a wolf has every man’s hair standing on end. The wolf bays a second time, and soon all the dogs in Blackhaven have been set off, howling and pacing up and down nervously, eager to roam free. The wolf howls and howls until the dogs are like to drive the castle mad, and with an exasperated cry, the grooms open the gate to let them run loose.

The horses and their riders thunder out of the stables and through the gate before anyone can stop them. Though the grooms shout and give chase, they are on foot, and have a pack of frenzied dogs to trip them up. By the time they saddle and mount their own horses, the two riders are long gone.

.

Theon and Robb ride through the night, hooting with laughter. Grey Wind bounds along beside them, tongue lolling from his mouth as the cool night air rushes past him. 

“That was the stupidest plan you’ve ever had!” Robb calls.

“Aye, but it worked, didn’t it?”

They ride until morning, when the first streaks of light touch the sky. Ahead of them, they see the ruins of a castle, and for a moment, with the early morning sun shining through its empty spaces, Theon swears the place is afire.

But as they ride closer, he sees that it is not; only an illusion.

“What is this place?” he wonders aloud.

“I don’t know. We’re nearly out of the Marches. Grassy Vale?”

“We can’t have ridden  _ that _ far,” Theon protests. “Grandview?”

“We’re nowhere near the river.”

Grey Wind howls.

“Quiet,” Robb says, but his own horse starts uneasily. “What is it?”

Realization hits Theon like a bolt of lightning. “They smell death.”

“What?”

“That’s Summerhall,” he tells his friend.

Robb reins up, hesitant. “You’re sure?”

“What else would it be?”

Everyone knows the stories of Summerhall. Aegon V had tried to bring back dragons, yet he’d killed half of House Targaryen in trying to do so. He’d died along with his son, Duncan the Small, and the famous knight, Duncan the Tall...and in the wake of the disaster, as the palace was still burning and ash filled the air, Rhaella Targaryen gave birth to Rhaegar. 

“Should we go?” Robb asks hesitantly.

Theon hesitates. “I don’t know.”

But the closer they get to the ruins, the more they feel that they  _ should _ rest here. It’s sure to be abandoned, and they imagine few people would approach the ruins. They could sleep here and set off again at nightfall.

Walking inside the ruins feels oddly like walking into a grave. The crypts of Winterfell are one thing, the stone resting places of so many kings and lords, but those men were already dead when they were laid to rest. People  _ died _ here, horribly. Even the sun, shining in through the gaps in the roof and the walls, does little to alleviate the dark chill that seems to hold this place in thrall. 

But they are already here, and they’ve ridden all night, so they feed and water the horses before laying down their bedrolls. Sleep comes in and out; Theon wakes with a start several times, but he only heard the shift of a horse or the sigh of Robb beside him. By the time the sun begins to sink low in the sky, he is wide awake and ready to leave this horrible place behind him--before the sun retreats completely. 

They ride all through the night again; by the time the sun rises, they are out of the Marches, and ahead of them lie miles and miles of forest.

“The Kingswood,” Robb announces. “We’ll cut through here and come out at the mouth of Blackwater; from there, we’ll follow the Rush into the Riverlands. My mother wrote to me from Riverrun; even if she’s not there anymore, my uncle Edmure will shield me, I’m sure of it.”

“I don’t know,” Theon says reluctantly. “The Kingswood may take us too close to King’s Landing. If we went west…”

“...we’d be in open country, where Grey Wind would be spotted,” Robb points out. “Besides, how many outlaws have prospered in the Kingswood without once being caught?”

He has a point there, so Theon nods. “As you will, Stark.”

Though tired from their ride, the two men press on until they have reached the edge of the Kingswood, and then they ride a little deeper. They do not stop until they are sure they will be undisturbed, and only then do they hobble the horses and lay out their bedrolls. Exhausted, Theon falls asleep as soon as his head has hit the ground.

.

He wakes hours later, jolted awake by a snapping twig. He sits up, looking around. 

Grey Wind is also awake, hackles raised and a low growl rumbling across the glen. Theon reaches over to shake Robb awake.

“What?” Robb mumbles, but he sits up fast enough when he hears Grey Wind growling. “What is it, boy?”

From behind the trees, a voice says, “If we come out, will you keep back your wolf?”

“If you swear not to harm me,” Robb says sternly.

“We swear it.”

“Grey Wind, to me,” Robb orders. The direwolf backs up reluctantly, and though he stops growling, he is the very picture of tense. 

Slowly, a band of men peer out from behind the trees. Grey Wind growls again, but one of the men smiles.

“I thought that was a direwolf.”

Theon can hardly believe what he’s seeing. “Lord Beric?”

“At your service,” the Lord of Blackhaven, says, bowing...but he pauses. “Are those my horses?”

Robb and Theon exchange looks.

“Why would we have your horses?” Theon asks, arranging his face in what he hopes is a genuinely curious expression.

“They are my horses! I would know this filly anywhere,” Beric says, reaching for the admittedly distinctive looking horse in dappled brown and white. “This is Shiera, and that gelding is Bloodraven.”

“Cruelly named, my lord,” Robb says, but he smiles as he stands up. “We may have borrowed your horses for a time.”

“Borrow them all you like; I daresay they’ve gotten more exercise with you lads than they would have at home.” Beric considers them, still stroking the filly’s nose. “What are you doing here, young Stark?”

Robb shifts uncomfortably. “That is a long tale, my lord.”

“You’ll stay away from King’s Landing if you want to keep it that way,” Beric says bluntly. “There’s ill feeling for the Starks there, boy.”

“I know.”

The red priest, Thoros of Myr, chuckles as he takes a swig from his wineskin. “You needn’t fear us, boy. We’re exiles, too.”

That surprises Theon. “Truly?”

“Aye. Lord Stannis sent me packing, sure I was in league with Melisandre. She’d be furious if she knew anyone thought we were  _ in league _ together. Beric here goes wherever I go, and young Edric goes wherever  _ he _ goes.”

Theon looks around and sees that Sansa’s young Lord of Starfall is indeed among the party.

“And the rest of you?” Robb asks curiously. 

“Friends and companions, mostly. Brothers in arms who mislike the turning of the tides.”

“You come from King’s Landing, then? All of you?”

“We come from all over the Seven Kingdoms,” Beric says. “But yes, most recently, we came from King’s Landing.”

“Do you know what happened to my aunt? Why she was exiled?”

Beric frowns. “You don’t know?”

Robb shakes his head. “No. We were in Dorne when my mother sent word for us to return, and she wrote only that it was not safe for a Stark so far south.”

Beric shakes his head. “It’s a long story, Robb Stark, and one you may not like to hear.”

“I would hear it all the same, if it concerns my family.”

Beric heaves a sigh. “Very well. Anguy will find us some game, and Thoros will share his wine, and perhaps a belly full of food and wine will take the sour taste out of your mouth when you hear what I have to tell you.” 

As the men around them make camp, Robb mutters, “What could have  _ happened _ ?”

Theon has a feeling he isn’t going to like the answer. 

.

Over roast boar and sour wine, Beric Dondarrion tells Theon and Robb all that has transpired in King’s Landing since they left only a short time ago. He tells them about Queen Lyanna’s treason, about the bastard Jon Snow, and about King Robert’s mysterious death.

When he finishes his tale, Robb and Theon can only sit in stunned silence.

“I know it’s a lot to take in,” Beric says gently. “I’ll leave you to it.” He gets up, wandering over to join a man in a lemon-yellow cloak, who’s whittling on the other side of the fire.

“I don’t believe it,” Robb says at long last. “Jon...he’s  _ Lyanna’s _ son? Not my father’s?”

Theon can hardly believe it either. Jon looks so much like Lord Stark that no one had ever questioned him being his son. And all this time, he’d been Queen Lyanna’s. Lyanna, who had been carried off by Rhaegar and returned to Robert ravaged but alive. She’d been gone for months, of course, how had no one ever suspected?

_ Because Lord Eddard was protecting her. He knew the truth and he lied, and no one had ever suspected him of lying. _

And yet he  _ had _ lied, and it had cost the kingdom dearly. Or will, anyway, when Jon Snow and his Targaryen aunt come blazing across the Narrow Sea.

“Do you think she ever loved Robert?” Theon can’t help but ask. “Or did she love Rhaegar all the time?”

“I don’t know,” Robb says, troubled. “Do you think...Jon knew? All the time?”

“Not all the time, surely.” 

“But how long?”

“I don’t know.”

They sit in silence for a long moment. 

“Do you think my family killed Robert?”

“No,” Theon says, stricken...but did they? Who else would have killed Robert, if not the wife and friend he exiled? 

_ But Ned Stark is an honorable man--he wouldn’t have killed Robert. Robert was his closest friend, even if he did lie to him all those years. _

“We have to get back to Winterfell,” Robb decides. 

“We’ll take you there,” Beric offers. “We have nowhere else to go.”

“Nowhere?” Theon asks warily.

Beric shrugs. “We only wanted to leave the city while we were unwelcome. We had some thought of returning south, but Edric expressed a desire to call upon your sister, and Gendry wanted to offer his service to your aunt.”

Theon takes in the sullen boy with dark hair and blue eyes. “What’s Queen Lyanna to you?”

“My stepmother,” Gendry mutters. “King Robert was my father, but he didn’t care about me. Never so much as gave me a copper. Queen Lyanna came to visit me from the time I was a babe; she paid for my apprenticeship and saw to my every need.”

“She did?” Robb asks in surprise.

“She looked after all of King Robert’s bastards.”

This only deepens the mystery surrounding Queen Lyanna. How could she care for her husband’s bastard children yet plot against him? 

“Then I would be glad of your company,” Robb says. “And yours, Lord Edric.” 

Edric Dayne bows his head. “I would be honored, my lord.”

“We’ll all go,” Thoros declares, plopping down on the log beside Beric. “We have nothing better to do, anyway. May as well see these lads to Winterfell.”

Theon isn’t quite sure how he feels about taking so large a group to Winterfell...but then again, they are all in the same boat as Robb and Theon, aren’t they? They are also exiles, those who felt unwelcome in King’s Landing. And it will be safer to travel with a band of men rather than just Grey Wind. 

“We’ll leave in the morning,” Beric decides. “At first light. We’ll head west and turn north at the mountains. That should get us at least to the Riverlands without having to take the Kingsroad. Once we cross the Red Fork, we’ll be close enough to your father’s men that we won’t run into much trouble on the road.”

“Much?”

“Stark and Baratheon are at war now,” Beric says gently. “Your cousin is still a child and ruled by her uncles, and neither of them are like to forget their brothers’ death...or his wife’s treason.”

Robb curses under his breath. “Of course we went as far south as south goes when all my family was exiled back to the North.”

“We’ll see you there safely, my lord,” Edric Dayne declares. “We are as brothers in these dark times.”

“Brothers, aye,” Thoros agrees with a wine-stained grin. “A brotherhood without banners.”


	43. CASSANA III

Father had never liked holding court...and after a while, Cassie begins to understand why. 

Lords and ladies come from all over Westeros, pledging their loyalty and acknowledging her as their true queen...but sooner or later, they all want something. Lower taxes, more lands, titles for their by-blows and marriages for their daughters. 

At first, Cassie had tried to help. These are her people, after all, and she is the Protector of the Realm. But it’s as if with every inch she grants them, they take a mile. 

“You granted Lord So-And-So, this, why not me?”

“How can I hope to make good marriages for my children on such a small pension?”

“Your father told me this gift was in perpetuity; does the crown break faith so quickly?”

Cassie begins to dread holding court. 

“You could always let Father do it,” Shireen says reasonably. “He’s your Regent, it’s his job.”

But Cassie, weary as she is, shakes her head. “No. I must learn now, while I have room to err. I cannot afford missteps when I come of age.” 

So several times a week, she sits on that uncomfortable Iron Throne while Uncle Stannis sits beside her and murmurs words of counsel in her ear. Soon they will have a Hand; Uncle Stannis says he is trying to narrow down his list. 

Aunt Cersei has been hinting heavily that her father should be named Hand, and has even tried speaking privately to Cassie about it. She brings Cassie silks and sweets and pets her hair and tells her how lovely she is, and when she thinks Cassie’s defenses are lowered, she mentions what a great leader her father is, how much the realm fears him, how Cassie’s traitorous kin would never dare to cross him.

“You must find a Hand quickly,” she begs her uncle. “I grow tired of her flattery. She was the same way with Mother, and Mother never trusted her.”

“In that, your mother was wise,” Uncle Stannis admits. “Cersei Lannister cannot be trusted, no matter that she is my sister by law. Her father served as Hand of the King and liked the taste too well to give it up. Twice he sought to make his daughter queen, and as long as she is alive, he will keep seeking to put her on the throne.”

That surprises Cassie. “But  _ I’m _ the queen.”

“You are. But that does not mean the Lannisters will stop trying.” 

Cassie thinks of her cousins, Tommen and Myrcella, and wonders if they are anything like their mother’s family. Would Myrcella leap at the chance to become queen? Would Tommen overthrow her if he thought it would make him king?

_ They would never betray me, _ she tells herself.  _ They may be half Lannister, but they are also half Baratheon. They would never betray their own cousin.  _

...would they?

.

Another thing Father had always hated was sitting in on the small council meetings. He’d said they were boring and had left everything to his Hand.

Cassie is determined to be different from him in this, especially now that there is no Hand. She joins the small council whenever they convene and listens as they share their business with the others. 

What others are left, that is. With no Hand and no Master of Coin, the small council has grown decidedly smaller. Once a Hand is appointed, they will need to find a new Master of Coin as well as a new Master of Ships, since Uncle Stannis serves as her Regent. In the meantime, she invites Ser Barristan Selmy to sit in on the small council. It’s tradition for the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard to do so, but Father had never wanted him to, not quite trusting the man who had once served Aerys. Cassie sees no need for that. If she means to keep the loyalty of those who serve her, she will hide nothing from them.

“I am honored, my queen,” he says graciously when she invites him. “Though I am afraid I have no head for politics.”

“That makes two of us, Ser Barristan.”

He chuckles at that.

It is at one of these small council meetings that Maester Pycelle unfurls a raven’s scroll. “A message from the Iron Islands,” he says in his quavering voice. “Balon Greyjoy has declared himself their king.”

“Again?” Uncle Renly asks in disbelief. “Didn’t he learn the first time?”

“With King Robert dead, no doubt he feels that he will not face the same repercussions,” Varys says in silken tones. 

“Does this mean war?” Cassie asks uncertainly. 

“It could,” Ser Barristan tells her. “It came to war last time, but the Iron Islands may not be so eager to rise a second time.”

Varys clears his throat. “And there is the matter of Balon Greyjoy’s only surviving son...Theon, I believe his name is.”

Cassie’s stomach lurches. “What about him?”

“He’s Ned Stark’s ward,” Uncle Stannis says. “Balon knew that if he ever attempted to rise against the crown again, his son would pay the price.”

Cassie licks her lips. “But Theon didn’t commit treason.”

“No, but his father did.”

Uncle Renly looks at her with pitying eyes. “Balon Greyjoy knew the price, Your Grace.” When she bites her lip nervously, he turns to the rest of the council. “Though I suppose it doesn’t really matter; Ned Stark is a traitor as well.”

“What are you suggesting?” Grand Maester Pycelle wheezes.

“I’m not suggesting anything, only saying that Ned Stark is not like to kill his ward for a crown he no longer serves.”

“Something must be done about the North,” Varys says quietly. “They are all of them traitors.”

“I will not declare war against my family.” Cassie’s voice is firm, and she’s glad of that. “They may be traitors, but they are still my kindred.”

The members of her small council look uneasily at one another.

“Your Grace--”

“Spare me the remonstrances,” she huffs, rising. The other members of the council quickly rise with her. “I will not be called a kinslayer. Find a way to quash Balon Greyjoy’s rebellion before it gets out of hand, and don’t involve his son in it, if you can. I am not my father; I do not kill children because of their fathers’ crimes.”

The small council all bow their heads until she is gone. Agitated, she sends Myrcella to cancel her appointment with the seamstresses and sends Shireen to summon Ser Aron Santagar for a sparring lesson. Alone at last, she strips off her jewels and fine gown and pulls on her worn shirt and breeches. She ties back her hair and laces up the boots herself, feeling oddly calmer as she dresses herself. People so often do things for her these days, even help her into her clothes, that it feels nice to be able to do something by herself.

She meets Ser Aron in the private courtyard just below her chambers. He bows low when he sees her.

“My queen.” 

“Ser Aron.” She pulls her sword from its belt. All the good swords have names. Arya had named hers Needle, joking that it was the only needle she was good at using. Cassie had named hers Kindness, on account of Arya’s septa telling them that a lady’s armor is her courtesy. 

“If courtesy is our armor, then let Kindness be my weapon,” she’d declared.

Jon had given her this sword. Or left instructions for the blacksmith to give it to her, which is more or less the same thing, she supposes.  _ He’d known then that he was my brother, but it would be months before I learned it too. Was this his way of trying to make peace? To make up for all the lost years? For the things he had yet to do? Did he know then that in putting his aunt on the throne, he would tear me off of it? _

She pushes all thoughts of Jon from her mind and focuses on the here and now. 

“Don’t hold back, Ser Aron.”

His lips twitch in amusement. “Meaning no offense, Your Grace, but you’d be bruised and bloody if I didn’t hold back.”

“Good,” she says miserably. “I could do with a beating.”

He swings his sword, and Kindness meets it with a  _ clack _ . “Is ruling truly so unpleasant, Your Grace?”

“Worse.” She twirls her blade over her head and brings it down, meeting his blade with another  _ clack. _ “I hate it. I don’t know why my father wanted it.”

“I wouldn’t say he  _ wanted _ it,” Ser Aron says wisely, lazily parrying her thrust. “I don’t think he had any other choice.”

“Because the Targaryens were dead, you mean?’

“ _ Some _ of the Targaryens were dead, yes, and those that lived would never forgive him as long as they lived. Robert only meant to kill Rhaegar, never the others. But Tywin Lannister and his dogs killed the Mad King and Princess Elia and her children, and then there was nothing left but for Robert to have done with the rest of them.”

Cassie’s never considered that before. “You think my father would have let the other Targaryens live if the Lannisters hadn’t sacked the city? Ow!” For Ser Aron thwacks her upper arm.

“Yes, and no. I don’t think he meant for the others to die...but there was no way to avoid it. Aerys never would have let Robert take his son and heir, so Robert had to have him killed. Elia and her children would have never forgiven Robert had they lived and her son become king, so he had to have them killed. Viserys, too, would never have forgiven him, and would have had him killed when he came of age. So Robert had to have him killed, too. Only Viserys and Daenerys made it across the Narrow Sea.”

“And now Daenerys means to take back what is hers with fire and blood.” Cassie sighs, her arm drooping and Kindness trailing on the ground. “And why should I stop her?”

Ser Aron looks at her with surprise. “My queen?”

“My mother wants her on the throne. My brother wants her on the throne. She is the last trueborn Targaryen, and what Targaryen has ever submitted to a  _ Baratheon _ before?”

Ser Aron considers her. “It’s true that no Targaryen has bent the knee to a Baratheon before...but how do you know the dragon queen will even make it across the Narrow Sea? She’s a thousand miles away, and still has yet to raise an army or ships to carry it here. She’s a beggar like her brother before her. Ruling is hard, my queen, I do not deny that...but the good kings are the ones who never wanted to rule. You have no appetite for ruling, you say...and that is why you will make a splendid queen.”

Cassie cannot help but smile a little. “Truly, Ser Aron?”

“Truly. How many men have had a taste for power and let it spoil their natures? This Targaryen could have a peaceful life in Essos, if she let herself, but her desperation to take back the Iron Throne will be her undoing. Not so with you, my queen.”

She feels oddly heartened by his inspiring words. “Thank you, Ser Aron. You have given me much to consider.”

He bows his head. “I hope I may always provide words of counsel and comfort to my queen when needed.” He twirls his blade. “And now, Your Grace, let us work on your form.”

.

Feeling refreshed after her sparring session, Cassie orders a hot bath before dinner. Uncle Stannis has invited Mace Tyrell to court to see if Cassie approves of him as Hand.

“He’s a bumbling fool, make no mistake,” Uncle Stannis had said grimly. “But he will do as he is told so long as we keep his mother happy.”

“His mother?”

“Mace Tyrell may be the Lord of Highgarden and Lord Paramount of the Reach, but it is Lady Olenna who truly rules. She will want good marriages for her children, and in exchange, will be content to let us use her son as little more than a figurehead.”

Shireen and Myrcella help Cassie wash and dress in a burgundy gown, setting a net of small garnets over her head. Satisfied with her appearance, Cassie goes to meet her guests in her private dining room.

Uncle Stannis is already waiting, as is a jolly looking man who can only be Mace Tyrell.

“Your Grace!” he cries, bowing low at the waist. “I was just telling your uncle how honored I am to have received your invitation.”

“I am so glad you could join us, Lord Tyrell,” she says with a genuine smile. He is a bumbling fool, to be sure, but he seems kind and genuine. He will, at the very least, be entertaining during small council meetings. 

They sit at the mahogany table, and at once, servants place a salad of fennel and raspberries before them. 

Cassie finds that she has to say very little. Lord Tyrell is content to talk about himself, though occasionally he will check himself and ask her a question to be polite. Uncle Stannis sits to her left, grinding his teeth. It is clear that Lord Tyrell grates on him, but Cassie has a feeling he’ll be named Hand anyway. He is as malleable as her uncle had promised, and Cassie imagines his mother might be willing to let even a good marriage slide as long as it gave her indistinct son some distinction. 

The salad has been taken away and the wine has been poured in preparation of the main course--a boar that’s been turning on the spit all day, thick with juice and heavy with spice--when the door bursts open and Uncle Renly strides through.

“Your Grace!” Ser Balon Swann exclaims, looking apologetic as he tears after the other man. “I’m sorry, I tried to stop him--”

Uncle Renly throws himself on his knees before Cassie. “Forgive me, sweet Cass, my little niece, forgive me,” he moans, pressing his forehead to her hand. 

“What’s the meaning of this?” Uncle Stannis asks, rising. “Renly, what in the name of the Seven are you doing?”

“It’s my fault,” he mumbles. “It’s mine, I let it happen, I was so blind...how could I have been so blind?”

“Uncle Renly?” she asks nervously. His forehead is beaded with sweat, and when he looks up at her, she sees that his face is pale and his eyes are red. 

“She’s a hateful woman,” he whispers. 

Stannis grabs Renly, pulling him to his feet. “Pull yourself together, man.”

But Renly clutches Stannis’s shirt and looks at him with desperation. “Stannis, you have to stop her.”

“Stop  _ who _ ?”

“My wife,” Uncle Renly chokes. 

Lord Tyrell reaches for his goblet of wine, but Uncle Renly knocks it out of his hand.

“No! She’s poisoned it, she’s poisoned the whole cask!” 

Cassie erupts out of her seat, leaping back from her goblet as if burned. She hasn’t touched it yet, but it frightens her all the same.

“Guards!” Uncle Stannis roars, and three other knights of the Kingsguard run into the room, as well as four of the Red Keep’s guards. “Find Cersei Baratheon,  _ now. _ ” He points at his younger brother. “Explain.”

“It’s as I said, I only just found out,” Uncle Renly says quickly. “I saw her emptying the vial of poison into the wine and I realized...I asked her what she was doing, and she gave me some nonsense about how it was our fate, how I was meant to be king and she my queen, and I asked her if she killed Robert and--” He chokes on a sob, tears running down his cheeks. “She only smiled. Gods, how could I not have  _ seen _ ?” 

In a rare moment of affection, Uncle Stannis opens his arms...and Uncle Renly falls into them, weeping into his brother’s shoulder. 

“It’s alright,” Uncle Stannis says quietly, and Cassie remembers that it was not Shireen who was his first child, but Renly. He had cared for Renly at Storm’s End, had protected him in the siege, had raised him into a man. Uncle Renly is a man grown now, with a wife and children, but in some ways, he is still that child Uncle Stannis raised. 

.

The guards find Cersei in the stables, trying to flee the city with Tommen and Myrcella. Her children are wide-eyed and confused, and they go as soon as their mother’s hands have been pried from them. 

“You fools, unhand me!” Cersei snaps, but as the guards drag her away, her shouts become more and more frantic until she is kicking and screaming. 

Most frightening of all is when Jaime Lannister appears and fights Boros Blount, trying desperately to free his sister. It takes several household guards, Ser Barristan, and Ser Arys Oakheart to contain Jaime, and they lead him and his sister away to the dungeons. 

Cassie feels ill watching it all unfold. She goes to her room, where Myrcella is sobbing with fright, Shireen desperately trying to comfort her. Maester Frenken finally brings her a sleeping draught, and though it takes a long time, eventually, Myrcella’s sobs fade into deep, measured breaths.

The hour is late when Uncle Stannis comes to her, speaking softly so as not to wake Myrcella. Not that there’s any danger of that; the poor girl is out for the night.

“She denies all,” he says wearily. “But there was poison in the wine. Pycelle insists nothing went missing from his stores, but he is old...and has always been loyal to House Lannister.”

“Then...he knew?” Cassie whispers. “He knew she killed my father and lied to protect her?”

“Perhaps. We will need to put her on trial to know more.”

Cassie closes her eyes. “And Uncle Renly?”

“I believe he was truly innocent to Cersei’s crimes. They have been wed since he was a boy; she has had many years to practice deceiving him. Nevertheless, he will be asked to testify.”

Cassie glances at her sleeping cousin. “How do I tell her?”

“Not alone,” Shireen promises. 

_ Not alone... _ and yet, somehow, Cassie has never felt more alone in her life. 

_ I wish, _ she thinks miserably,  _ I wish Mother was here.  _


	44. JON XVII

The slaves of Yunkai disperse all over the continent. Some go back to the cities where they were taken. Many of them remain in Yunkai, to rule the city in the slavers’ stead. And many more accompany Dany and her Unsullied to Meereen, the last of the three great cities in Slaver’s Bay. 

The odds they had faced against Astapor and the uncertainty they had felt against Yunkai are little more than distant memories now. With eight thousand, six hundred Unsullied, all of the Stormcrows, and a solid number of the Second Sons, as well as the rapidly-growing dragons behind them, they are an unstoppable force. Meereen is famous for its fighting pits, it is said, but every one of those fighting men are slaves, and they will have heard about Daenerys Stormborn and her army of freed men by now.

“Strong Belwas was fighter in Meereen fighting pits!” the eunuch declares, slapping his belly. “No man could defeat Strong Belwas! When the little queen’s army takes the city, Strong Belwas fight  _ his _ masters! He will let them cut him once as with all men in the fighting pit.”

“Do the masters know how to fight?” Jon asks. His impression of Astapor and Yunkai had been that the masters know next to nothing about combat.

“No, but neither did Strong Belwas before they took me! Ha! Let them see what it feels like!”

The Stormcrow Daario Naharis reins up beside Dany. “Strong Belwas speaks true...to a point. Meereen has had ample time to prepare. Already we’ve encountered little food on the road, with most of the farmland harvested or scorched. We’ve encountered, too, poisoned wells. They have enough food to last the winter, and they will see us starve outside their walls.”

“If we don’t get inside first,” Dany says, unconcerned. “And I believe I told you to ride in the back, ser.”

“I am no ser...but I am your loyal servant, and will obey you in all things,” Daario says smoothly, falling back. He and Grey Worm had had a contest all through the night and well into the morning, holding their knives aloft without once lowering their arms. The winner would ride beside Dany on the road to Meereen.

Or would have, had Missandei not quietly informed the queen. As punishment, she had ordered that neither of them would ride beside her, as both of them kept her waiting.

Jon mislikes it. Not Grey Worm, who he is glad to see is partaking in something as harmless and enjoyable as a contest to ride beside his queen. No, it’s Daario Naharis he mislikes. The man seems truly loyal to Dany...but so do all traitors, Jon supposes. His own mother is wed to King Robert and has been conspiring to put Dany on the throne for some time now. Daario is a sellsword besides, and, what’s more, a sellsword who killed his brothers-in-arms and delivered Dany their heads after one meeting. He claims to be infatuated with her, and that may be so, but Jon is not as quick to trust the Tyroshi as his aunt.

Jorah also mislikes Daario, which Jon knows is more because the older man is jealous than because he truly mistrusts him. Even so, it feels good to have an ally to roll his eyes with whenever the sellsword speaks too sweetly to Dany. 

They are nearing the city when a shout from the front halts the march. Exchanging looks, Jon and Dany urge their mounts to the front of the column, where Jorah, Oberyn, and Ellaria are staring at something.

Jon’s stomach turns, because nailed to a cross on the roadside is a little girl, her arm braced so that she’s pointing towards Meereen.

“There’s one on every mile marker between here and Meereen,” Jorah says quietly.

“How many miles are there between here and Meereen?” Dany asks, her voice cold.

Jorah looks away. “One hundred and sixty three, Your Grace.”

“I’ll tell our men to ride ahead and bury them,” Jon offers. 

“You will do no such thing.” She sits up in her saddle, stiff and angry. “I will see each and every one of their faces. Remove her collar before you bury her.” She rides ahead, leaving her subjects behind. Slowly, Jon slides off his horse and stands on the platform beneath the cross. He reaches up and, with his knife, cuts the collar free from the girl’s neck. 

_ Death is the only freedom she has ever known, _ he thinks sadly.  _ But it will not be that way for the rest of Meereen. They  _ will  _ know freedom in this life.  _

.

When they pass over the ridge and Meereen comes into view, Jon instantly sees why it is considered the greatest of the three slave cities.

Pyramids rise high into the sky, man-made mountains intricately carved. 

“They say a thousand slaves died building the Great Pyramid of Meereen,” Missandei says quietly. 

“And a thousand slavers will die when we take the city,” Jon promises.

The road to Meereen takes them into a big, open field before the gates. Two harpies flank the gate, which is shut. The Unsullied pour into the space, falling into their neat rows as they face the city. 

Dany, Jon, and Jorah dismount when the army has gathered. Suddenly, the gate opens, but only a sliver.

“Are they attacking?” Dany asks, surprised.

“A single rider,” Jorah observes. “A champion of Meereen. They want you to send your own champion against him.”

True enough, a rider in a flowing silk hat rides out of the gate, his horse thundering up and down in a line as he waves his striped lance. 

“ _ Khaleesi, _ let me fight this fly of a man,” Rakharo begs once Jon has told them what the champion wants.

“No, let  _ me _ ,” Jhogo begs.

“I am the strongest, let  _ me _ ,” Aggo insists. The three bloodriders squabble until they nearly come to blows, and only a stern shout from Dany quiets them.

“Blood of my blood, your place is here by me. You speak true, this man is a buzzing fly, no more. Ignore him, he will soon be gone.” 

“That was wisely done,” Jorah says in the Common Tongue. “Let the fool ride back and forth and shout until his horse goes lame. He does us no harm.” 

It is at that moment that the hero dismounts and shouts something at Dany.

“What is he doing?” she asks, watching him reach between his legs.

Jon clears his throat. “I believe he means to…”

But he doesn’t need to finish, because the stream of piss becomes evident even from a distance. The Meereenese hoot with laughter from atop their high walls.

“He says that we’re an army of men without...man parts,” Missandei says shyly. “He claims you are no woman at all, but a man who…” The Naathi scribe looks mortified, and says the next few words all in one breath, “hideshiscockinhisownasshole.” 

“Ignore him,” Jon urges. “These are meaningless words.”

“His name is Oznak zo Pahl,” Oberyn reports, from where he has just been conferring with the Second Sons. They follow him now that Mero is dead. “His uncle is the richest man in Meereen and his father commands the city guard.” 

“Shall I cut that off for you and stuff it down his mouth, Your Grace?” Daario offers as he rides up. 

“It’s his city I want, not his meager manhood.” Her voice is agitated. “I have something I want to say to the people of Meereen...but first, I will need this one to be quiet.” She considers. “Tell Strong Belwas I have need of him.” 

Jon finds the eunuch near the back, eating a sausage. He finishes it in three bites, wipes his greasy hands clean on his trousers, and grabs his swordbelt and shield. 

“Find liver and onions,” he says merrily. “Not for now, for after. Killing makes Strong Belwas hungry.” 

“Why that one,  _ Khaleesi _ ?” Rakharo demands in Dothraki. “He is fat and stupid.” 

“Strong Belwas was a slave here in the fighting pits. If this highborn Oznak should fall to such the Great Masters will be shamed, while if he wins...well, it is a poor victory for one so noble, one that Meereen can take no pride in.” 

She has the right of it--and in truth, Strong Belwas can be spared where Dany’s other champions cannot. All of her other protectors command troops and offer her counsel. Strong Belwas does nothing but eat and bellow. It’s time they put Illyrio’s gift to the test.

Oznak zo Pahl mounts up when he sees Belwas approach.

“A chivalrous man would dismount,” Jon notes. 

Oznak zo Pahl lowers his lance and charges. Belwas stops with legs spread wide. He looks comical, this great man without so much as a shirt standing against one of Meereen’s greatest fighters.

“We should have given him chainmail,” Dany says anxiously. 

“Mail would only slow him,” Jorah soothes. “They wear no armor in the fighting pits. It’s blood the crowds come to see.” 

Oznak thunders toward Strong Belwas, his striped cloak streaming from his shoulders. The whole city of Meereen screams him on, their shouts echoing in the open field. There are no cheers from the Unsullied, they who are so stern and solemn, but it matters little to Belwas; he stands in the horse’s path unmoving even though Oznak’s lance is aimed right at his chest. At the last minute, he spins sideways, and quick as the blink of an eye, the horseman wheels about, raising the lance a second time. Belwas makes no move to strike at him. 

“What is he doing?” Dany demands. 

“Giving the mob a show,” Jorah says. And it’s true; the Meereenese scream in anger, fear, and excitement. 

Oznak circles Belwas, then digs in his spurs and charges again. Again Belwas waits, and again spins away from the lance with a booming laugh.

“The lance is too long,” Jon observes. “All Belwas needs do is avoid the point. Instead of trying to spit him so prettily, the fool should ride right over him.” 

Oznak zo Pahl charges a third time, riding past Belwas as knights at a tourney, not a warrior riding down his victim. A third time, Belwas spins away from the lance. The hero anticipated this and tries to strike Belwas’s new position--but Belwas had also anticipated this, and instead of spinning completely, he drops onto the ground and the lance passes over his head. Meereen laughs at the fat man rolling on the ground--until he pulls out his  _ arakh _ and cuts the legs off of the charger. 

The horse screams and falls as the hero tumbles out of the saddle, and now, a sudden silence sweeps along the brick parapets of Meereen. Now it is Dany’s people who scream and cheer. 

Oznak manages to draw his sword before Belwas gets to him. Steel sings against steel, and to Jon’s horror, Belwas’s chest is suddenly awash in blood from a slice below his breasts. Yet Belwas does not slow; he wrenches the blade loose and parts the hero’s head from his body with three savage blows to the neck. Jon and Dany sigh in relief.

Belwas holds the head up high for the Meereenese to see, then flings it toward the city gates and lets it bounce and roll across the sand. 

“So much for the hero of Meereen,” says Daario, laughing. 

Strong Belwas lopes back to Dany. “Strong Belwas wants liver and onions.”

“You shall have it,” Dany promises. “Strong Belwas is hurt.” 

He looks down at his bloody stomach and shrugs. “It is nothing. I let each man cut me once, before I kill him.” He slaps his bloody belly. “Count the cuts and you will know how many Strong Belwas has slain.” 

The Meereenese sufficiently silent, Daenerys walks forward and shouts in Valyrian.

“I am Daenerys Stormborn. Your masters have told you lies about me, or they have told you nothing. It does not matter. I have nothing to say to them. I speak only to you. First, I went to Astapor. Those who were slaves in Astapor now stand behind me, free. Next I went to Yunkai. Those who were slaves in Yunkai now stand behind me, free. Now I have come to Meereen. I am not your enemy. Your enemy is beside you. Your enemy steals and murders your children. Your enemy has nothing for you but pain and suffering and commands. I do not bring you commands. I bring you a choice. And I bring your enemies what they deserve.”

She gives the command, and the Unsullied launch trebuchets with barrels full of slave collars. 

.

“I must have this city,” she says after they have made camp, her dragons and her counselors all around her. 

“I’ve had a look at the landward walls, and I see no point of weakness,” says Jorah. “Given time, we might be able to mine beneath a tower and make a breach, but what do we eat while we’re digging? Our stores are all but exhausted.” He has called the freed slaves that follow them mouths with feet, and though Jon feels he is too harsh, he cannot deny that feeding their army and their hangers-on is costly.

“No weakness in the landward walls?” Dany repeats. “Does that mean we might attack from the river or the sea?”

“With three ships? We’ll want to have Captain Groleo take a good look at the wall along the river, but unless it’s crumbling that’s just a wetter way to die.” 

“What if we were to build siege towers? My brother Viserys told tales of such, I know they can be made.” 

“From wood, Your Grace,” Jorah says gently. “The slavers have burnt every tree within twenty leagues of here. Without wood, we have no ladders to go over the walls, no siege towers, no turtles, and no rams. We can storm the gates with axes, to be sure, but...” 

“Did you see the bronze heads above the gates?” asks Oberyn. “Rows of harpy heads with open mouths? The Meereenese can squirt boiling oil out those mouths, and cook your axemen where they stand.” 

Daario Naharis gives Grey Worm a smile and says in Valyrian, “Perhaps the Unsullied should wield the axes. Boiling oil feels like no more than a warm bath to you, I have heard.” 

“This is false.” Grey Worm does not return the smile. “These ones do not feel burns as men do, yet such oil blinds and kills. The Unsullied do not fear to die, though. Give these ones rams, and we will batter down these gates or die in the attempt.” 

“You would die,” Oberyn says bluntly. 

Dany sighs. “I will not throw away Unsullied lives, Grey Worm. Perhaps we can starve the city out.” 

Jorah looks unhappy. “We’ll starve long before they do, Your Grace. There’s no food here, nor fodder for our mules and horses. I do not like this river water either. Meereen shits into the Skahazadhan but draws its drinking water from deep wells. Already we’ve had reports of sickness in the camps, fever and brownleg and three cases of the bloody flux. There will be more if we remain. The slaves are weak from the march.” 

“Freedmen,” Jon corrects. “They are slaves no longer.” 

“Slave or free, they are hungry and they’ll soon be sick. The city is better provisioned than we are, and can be resupplied by water. Your three ships are not enough to deny them access to both the river and the sea.” 

“Then what do you advise, Ser Jorah?” 

“You will not like it,” he warns. 

“I would hear it all the same.” 

“As you wish. I say, let this city be. You cannot free every slave in the world,  _ Khaleesi _ . Your war is in Westeros.” 

“I  _ can _ free every slave in the world if I choose,” Dany says hotly. “And I have not forgotten Westeros. If I let Meereen’s old brick walls defeat me so easily, though, how will I ever take the great stone castles of Westeros?” 

“As Aegon did, with fire. By the time we reach the Seven Kingdoms, your dragons will be grown. And we will have siege towers and trebuchets as well, all the things we lack here...but the way across the Lands of the Long Summer is long and grueling, and there are dangers we cannot know. You stopped at Astapor to buy an army, not to start a war. Save your spears and swords for the Seven Kingdoms, my queen. Leave Meereen to the Meereenese and march west for Pentos.” 

“Defeated?” Dany bristles. 

“When cowards hide behind great walls, it is they who are defeated,  _ Khaleesi _ ,” Jhogo says. 

“Blood of my blood,” says Rakharo, “when cowards hide and burn the food and fodder, great  _ khals _ must seek for braver foes. This is known.” 

“It is known,” Jhiqui agrees as she pours wine for them. 

“Not to me. Ser Jorah, you say we have no food left. If I march west, how can I feed my freedmen?” 

“You can’t. I am sorry,  _ Khaleesi _ . They must feed themselves or starve. Many and more will die along the march, yes. That will be hard, but there is no way to save them. We need to put this scorched earth well behind us.” 

“Our queen did not free the slaves of Astapor and Yunkai only to let them die,” Jon snaps. He is tired of the other man urging her to ignore the freedmen. “If she abandons them, she’s no better than the slavers.”

“I will not march my people off to die,” Dany agrees. “There must be some way into this city.” 

“I know a way.” Oberyn pops a grape into his mouth. “Sewers.” 

“Sewers? What do you mean?” 

“Great brick sewers empty into the Skahazadhan, carrying the city’s wastes. They might be a way in, for a few.” 

Dany and Jon exchange looks.

“Easier to go out than in, it would seem to me,” Jon says. “These sewers empty into the river, you say? That would mean the mouths are right below the walls.” 

“And likely closed with iron grates,” Oberyn admits. 

Daario Naharis laughs. “If any man were fool enough to try this, every slaver in Meereen would smell them the moment they emerged.” 

Oberyn shrugs. “Her Grace asked if there was a way in, so I told her.”

Aggo, Jhogo, and Grey Worm all start to speak at once, but Dany raises her hand for silence. “These sewers do not sound promising. I must think on this some more. Return to your duties.” 

Her captains bow and leave her, all except Jon. He reclines on the cushions, throwing an orange for Rhaegal to chase. 

“If you were grown,” Dany tells Drogon, scratching him between the horns, “I’d fly you over the walls and melt that harpy down to slag.” She sighs, turning to Jon. “Well? What do you think?”

“About what?”

“About any of it.”

He considers. “Earlier, you spoke of getting inside their walls. I believe the sewers are the best way to do that.”

“You seemed skeptical earlier.”

“I was, and still am,” he admits. “But I do not think there is a better way inside. The Meereenese have enough food to starve us out, and our army means nothing to them when they are defended with such high, strong walls. But if we can get through those walls, then they would never stand a chance.”

She considers him, still scratching Drogon’s head. The dragon has grown so much, and is now the size of a horse, yet still he rests his head in Dany’s lap as though he was the little thing she hatched from stone. “What if we can’t get in through the sewers?”

He hesitates, and that pause is all the answer she needs.

“I see.” 

“Let me go into the sewers with Grey Worm and some of the Unsullied,” he offers. “I will look myself.

“In the sewers? Truly?”

He takes her hand in his. “You have given me every reason to trust you. Let me give you every reason to trust me.”

“I already trust you with my life and more.”

“Let me go anyway. Let me do this thing for you.”

“Since you are determined, very well.” She squeezes his hand, and then blushes. “Jon, what do you think of Daario Naharis?”

His annoyed face makes her laugh. “I see.”

“Why do you like him?” he asks frankly.

She shrugs. “I don’t know. He’s...different.”

“From what?”

“Any man I’ve ever met.”

“He is...unusual,” Jon agrees reluctantly. “But not your equal.”

“No man is. But I don’t want an equal, I want a lover.”

“He’s a sellsword. You are a  _ queen. _ ”

“I’m not looking for a husband, only a...as I said, a lover.”

“A good fuck, you mean.”

“Jon!” she scolds, but she giggles all the same. “Well...yes.” Her face falls. “It’s been a long time since I lay with Drogo. No matter how closely my handmaids sleep to me, my bed feels empty and cold. I am a queen, yes, but I am also a woman, and I have...needs.”

Jon looks away. He supposes she’s right. He was a boy when he came into her service, and they are of an age; in many ways, he still sees her as that girl. In large part, he supposes, because he still sees himself as that young boy.

_ We are both grown now. She’s right, she is a woman, and she deserves to be happy, even if it’s only for a night. _

“If you must have him...then be careful,” Jon says at last. “He is loyal to you now, but we saw how he treated the last people he was loyal to.”

“I am not such a fool as to think he is incapable of betrayal...yet I believe he is sincere.”

“Then you have your answer.”

She gives him a wry smile. “I always had my answer, but I needed your  _ approval _ .”

“Why should you care for my approval?”

She looks exasperated. “Because you are my brother, Jon, and the person I love most in this world. No matter how I feel, I could never bed a man of whom you did not approve.”

Her admission touches him. “Then I give my approval...but the moment he makes you unhappy, say the word and I’ll cut off his manhood.”

“The moment he makes me unhappy I will send for you to do so,” she promises. She kisses his cheek. “Thank you, Jon.”

“You’re welcome.” He stands. “Well, time for me to wade through a sea of shit.”

“You are a good man, Jon Snow.”

“Don’t I know it.”


	45. CATELYN III

Uncle Brynden accompanies her and Rickon to the Vale. He is still the Knight of the Gate, having left only for his brother’s funeral. 

Catelyn is grateful for his strong and sure presence. Edmure had sent thirty men to accompany them safely into the Vale, but they do not do half as much for Catelyn’s peace of mind as her uncle riding beside her. 

Carved from stone and reinforced by the mountains, the Bloody Gate is high and imposing...and impassable for anyone forcing entry. The singers oft tell of the thousands of men and armies who shattered when they threw themselves at the gate, but none could pass. The only enemy to ever bypass the gate was Visenya Targaryen, and she was on the back of a dragon.

As they near the gate, a man in the white tunic and blue cape worn commonly in the Vale calls, “Who would pass the Bloody Gate?”

“The Knight of the Gate, Ser Brynden Tully, and his niece Lady Catelyn Stark and her son Rickon Stark.”

“You are most welcome, Ser Brynden!” the man calls down to him. “Lady Arryn waits at the Eyrie.”

The gate opens, and the Tully-Stark party rides through it.

“Donnel Waynwod,” Uncle Brynden explains as they pass. “Lady Waynwood’s son. He’s a good lad. Might be I’ll give stewardship of the gate up to him.”

“And leave?” Catelyn asks in surprise.

He chuckles. “I’m not a young man anymore, little Cat.”

“You’re not an old man, either.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. “I left Riverrun because I was not welcome there. Your father and I had exchanged harsh words, and I took the position here because I wanted to prove I had a place here. Now that my brother is gone…” He shakes his head. “You remember our words?”

“Family, Duty, Honor,” she says at once. 

“Family, Duty, Honor. My duty is to my family, and I take my honor from serving my family. We’re on the brink of war, Cat. My family is in danger. The Bloody Gate will hold, but the North will not. Lysa will be safe here, but you and your children? You’ll need defenders. Give me men to hold Moat Cailin and I’ll sleep easier at night, knowing no man will pass through the Neck without my leave.”

It’s a good idea; the ruins of Moat Cailin have been abandoned for years, but it’s common knowledge that whoever holds Moat Cailin holds the key to the North. With Uncle Brynden holding it, no southern armies are like to get through. 

“I will speak to Ned, but I’m sure we would also sleep easier at night knowing no man will pass through the Neck without your leave.”

If they could get Uncle Brynden to hold Moat Cailin, and if they could get Edmure to bury his pride and marry one of the Frey girls, they’d have the Twins, and that would mean no landed army would be able to get through them. Few men would risk sailing up the western coast at the risk of running into an enterprising ironborn vessel, which leave the eastern coast, but even then, they’d have to contend with the Manderlys of White Harbor, who have always been loyal to House Stark. And even if the southerners did attempt an attack by sea, Winterfell is deep inland, and no army would be able to get to them without encountering their bannermen.

_ If they can be trusted. _

Ned always says that Northmen are different. More loyal. But they are still men, and even the most loyal servant can become the bitterest of foes if the circumstances allow for it. Catelyn does not want to believe that any of Ned’s bannermen would betray him, but she must be realistic. It is no easy thing, to be an enemy of the crown. And if the crown were to offer things to the Northern lords--money, land, titles--they might just betray their liege lord for these things.

Not for the first time, she wishes she had gone back to Winterfell with Ned and the girls. She longs to be with her family again and to hold them in her arms. 

_ But I am needed here. We will need the knights of the Vale if we are to survive until Jon and Daenerys and their army arrives. _

.

It’s half a day’s ride from the Bloody Gate to the Gates of the Moon, and night has fallen by the time Lord Nestor Royce lets them through.

“Ser Brynden!” he greets, coming out with a merry smile. “And Lady Stark, of course! You will not know me, my lady, but I knew your husband when he was fostered at the Eyrie.”

Catelyn smiles. “My husband has spoken often of you, my lord. It is an honor to finally meet you.”

“And this must be your son!”

“Our youngest, Rickon.”

“You knew my father?” Rickon asks as Lord Nestor helps him down from his horse.

“Since I was about your age, young Stark!”

Lord Nestor, who keeps the Gates of the Moon, graciously invites them to stay the night. Catelyn takes a hot bath, washing off the dirt of the road, before being served a hearty stew and bread still warm from the oven. 

“Tell me true, Nestor,” Uncle Brynden says as they sup. “Do the lords of the Eyrie truly think the Starks killed Jon Arryn?”

“No,” Lord Nestor says flatly. “We all remember Lord Stark when he was a boy here. He and Robert were the sons Lord Jon never had, and he was a second father to Lord Eddard.”

“Lysa believes it was Lord Eddard and Queen Lyanna.”

Lord Nestor shifts uncomfortably. “I would not speak ill of Lady Arryn.”

“It is only speaking ill if it is not true.”

He wavers at that. “Well...begging your pardons, ser, my lady...but Lady Arryn is no true Vale woman. She was only here a short while after she wed Lord Arryn; this is the first time she’s been back since then. Her views are not the views of the Vale...there again, with Lord Jon dead, his son Robin is our new lord, and he’s still a boy, so Lady Arryn rules as his regent. We none of us believe that Lord Stark killed Lord Arryn...yet she is the protector of the Vale until her son comes of age, and her word is our command.”

That is some relief. At least the Vale lords seem loyal to Ned, but they will not stir if Lysa does not command it. 

_ I must get through to her.  _

.

In the morning, Lord Nestor accompanies them up a forested path to the first of three waycastles. This one, named Stone, is bound by a massive iron gate. From there, he hands them over to a surefooted girl named Mya Stone. 

“Are you named after the castle?” Rickon asks as she puts him on top of a mule. The mules will carry them up to the second waycastle, Snow, for the path is thin, steep, and treacherous. They seem uncomfortable in the presence of Shaggydog, but Catelyn supposes that can’t be helped; she’s loath to part with the direwolf.

“I don’t think so,” she says with a smile. She’s very pretty, though she dresses like a boy. Catelyn supposes it does no great harm; she is, after all, better with the mules than the stableboys, according to Uncle Brynden. “Stone is what bastards of the Vale are named. The next castle is Snow, which I believe bastards of the North are called.”

“Yes; my brother Jon is a Snow,” Rickon says, and then frowns. “Only, he’s not my brother, is he?”

“Jon will always be your brother.” Catelyn sits awkwardly on her mule. “Is this customary, Mya?”

“Don’t worry, my lady; no one looks graceful atop a mule,” the bastard girl says cheerfully. “Away we go!” She leads the party up the narrow path. The air grows colder as they ascend, and Catelyn draws her cloak tighter about her. Slowly, the Gates of the Moon become obscured by a veil of cloud, and soon the mules are plodding under a castle that is one stone tower and one timber keep built together. They do not stop here, merely pass through and go further up the path. It becomes, somehow, even narrower and steeper, and with the wind howling all around her, Catelyn has to close her eyes and breathe deeply lest she cry out in fear. 

“Look, Mother!” Rickon shouts. “We’re so high!”

“I am looking,” she lies.

“No you’re not, your eyes are closed!”

“A brave little wolf,” Mya observes with a laugh. “You’ll like it up here, my lord.”

Catelyn does not open her eyes again until the mule comes to a halt. When she does open her eyes, she sees that they are inside a great, cavernous keep. Uncle Brynden helps her down, his arms sure around her as she walks on wobbling legs.

“You’ll get your bearings soon enough,” he says gently. “There are handholds up to the Eyrie, but there’s a bucket we can put you in.”

She huffs out an embarrassed laugh. “A bucket?”

“A great oaken thing meant for bringing goods into the castle, as there’s no road for wagons or horses, but a fair number of men have climbed into it. Take the bucket, Cat, there’s no shame in it.”

“I want to take the handholds,” Rickon insists.

“You shall,” Catelyn allows. “But Uncle, how will Shaggydog…?”

“He can ride in the bucket with you,” Rickon offers. “You always say you feel better when the wolves are around. He’ll make you feel better.”

She smiles. Her dear, sweet boy. “I will feel much safer with Shaggydog beside me.” 

So into the bucket she gets with an uncertain Shaggydog. He clearly mislikes being in the bucket, but when Catelyn grips the sides and closes her eyes, he buries his great head in her lap in what he must think is a reassuring gesture. 

Rickon and Uncle Brynden make it to the top unharmed, Rickon babbling about how exciting the Eyrie is.

_ At least one of us thinks so, _ she thinks wryly, brushing Shaggydog’s black hair off of her dress. 

“Ser Brynden.” The man who greets them is of a square, heavy build, his face plain and humorless. “A pleasure to see you here.” He looks inquiringly at Catelyn.

“Ser Vardis Egen,” Uncle Brynden tells her. “This is my niece, Lady Catelyn Stark...Lady Lysa’s sister.”

Ser Vardis Egen’s eyebrows rise high up on his head. “I see. I shall tell my lady that you are here.”

“Yes, do that.”

Ser Vardis bows stiffly before disappearing behind a pair of oaken doors. Catelyn hears the unmistakable sound of her sister’s shrill voice before Ser Vardis reemerges, bowing again. 

“Lady Arryn will receive you now.” 

The room he leads them into is magnificent--more magnificent, even, than the throne room of the Red Keep. Long and austere, the hall is all blue-veined marble and high, arched windows. What looks at first glance like a well sits in the center of the room, but upon further inspection, Catelyn sees that it is only a small railing surrounding the sigil of House Arryn carved into stone. At the opposite end of the room, high on a balcony, sits a throne carved from a weirwood tree, and sitting on it is Lysa and her son--who, Catelyn notes with distaste, she is still nursing.

“Sister. Uncle,” Lysa greets, her voice cold and her eyes colder. “I did not think to meet you in the Eyrie.”

Catelyn decides that there’s no point in hiding behind false courtesies. “Lysa, I am truly sorry about Jon’s death. But I must tell you, Ned and Lyanna had nothing to do with it.”

Lysa’s eyes flash, and were her son not suckling at her breast, Catelyn thinks she might fly across the room in fury. “Your husband was the last person to see mine.”

“Ned  _ loved _ Jon; he thought of him as a father,” Catelyn pleads. “He did not kill your husband...but I know who did.”

Robin’s lips pop off of his mother’s nipple with a wet sucking sound. “You know who killed my father?” he asks, wiping his mouth dry. 

Catelyn swallows. “It was Petyr Baelish.”

“No!” Lysa screams before Catelyn has finished saying the name. She stands up, angrily tugging her dress over her breast. “He would never have killed Jon! Petyr  _ loves _ me, why would he make me so unhappy?”

Catelyn glances at Uncle Brynden. “Lysa...have you not heard the news?”

Lysa’s eyes flash again. “What news?”

_ Oh, Mother have mercy _ . Catelyn takes a deep breath. “Petyr...is dead.”

The shriek Lysa lets out is like to tear the very walls asunder. Rickon clamps his hands over his ears, and Shaggydog howls as Lysa’s scream bounces off the high stone walls.

“Liar!” she shrieks. “Liar, liar,  _ liar _ !”

“It is the truth,” Catelyn shouts over her. “Lysa, I’m so sorry to have to be the one to tell you--”

“ _ Liar _ !”

Catelyn’s fear quickly melts into frustration. “Lysa,” she says sternly. “I understand your grief, but you must--”

“Silence!” Lysa bellows. “I am the Lady of the Vale, and I rule here, not you!” She tears at her hair. “Gods, Petyr,  _ Petyr _ ,” she sobs. 

Catelyn closes her eyes. Her sister had always been fond of Petyr, but she had not realized to the extent. She still cannot believe what Jon Arryn told Ned. Could her sister really have taken Petyr into her bed? Could she really have conceived his child?

_ How could I not have noticed? How could I not have seen my own sister suffering so much? _

“Perhaps you should go, my lady,” Ser Vardis says quietly from the sidelines. 

But Lysa recovers herself, at least a little. “No. My sister shall stay here. She is my family, after all. Family, Duty, Honor. Those are the Tully words.” Her mood changes as swiftly as the wind, a watery, tremulous smile on her face. “Forgive me, sister. Grief overcame me. I will have rooms made up for you. Will you excuse me?” Without waiting for an answer, she leaves swiftly, dragging Robin after her.

Catelyn glances at Uncle Brynden, completely at a loss. “What on earth was that?”

“Your sister is much changed, Lady Stark,” Ser Vardis says, his eyes flitting nervously about. Deeming the throne room safe, he takes a step closer and lowers his voice. “You should not have come to the Eyrie, my lady. Now she will never let you leave.”


	46. JON XVIII

The sewer is just as Oberyn said, emptying out into the Skahazadhan beneath the great walls. The tunnels are closed with heavy iron gates, but, injured as he is, Strong Belwas is able to lift the gate of one.

Jon wades through the watery sludge, trying not to breathe through his nose as he, Strong Belwas, and Grey Worm move down the tunnel. The water comes up just below their hips, but steps carved into the wall soon rise up out of the water, and they take these up and up, until they have come out into a damp chamber. 

They have brought no torches, fearing being seen, and they wander in the dark for a long time, mentally mapping the layout. When they think they have found the way, they plunge deeper into the city, and soon find themselves in a web of catacombs. They hear voices, movement from a thousand people, and a nod from Grey Worm confirms Jon’s suspicions.

They have found the slave quarters of Meereen.

Grey Worm motions for them to back away, and they do. Jon waits until they are back in the tunnel, the rushing water drowning out their speech from any eavesdroppers, to speak.

“Well?”

“Too dangerous,” Grey Worm declares. “We must come back when we are better armed, and disguised as slaves. We do not know if the masters will be down there.”

Strong Belwas nods in agreement. “The masters keep close eye on the slaves. They keep close eye on Strong Belwas. And they will eat the little queen’s pretty cousin if they see him.”

“Thank you, Belwas,” Jon says wryly. “What do you want to do then, Grey Worm?”

“Come back with more of the Unsullied, dressed as slaves of Meereen, bearing weapons for them to use against the masters.”

“And you think it will work?”

“There are three slaves for every master in Meereen,” Strong Belwas declares. “It will work.”

.

After they’ve washed the filth from their bodies and changed into clean clothes, Jon, Grey Worm, and Strong Belwas tell Dany all that they found and what they want to do with this knowledge. She listens intently before asking the same question Jon asked.

“You think it will work?”

“I tell the pretty cousin, there are three slaves for every master in Meereen. Give enough of them swords and spears and they will be able to let in the Unsullied,” Strong Belwas declares.

“Queen Daenerys,” Grey Worm says in halting Common. Missandei is giving him lessons, and Dany often makes him speak in the Common Tongue so that he will learn faster. “This one and ten Unsullied will dress as slaves of Meereen with weapons to arm fifty men. We will create…” He curses under his breath, trying to find the Common word.

“A diversion?” Dany suggests kindly.

“Diversion,” he agrees. “While slaves kill the masters, Unsullied open the gates.”

She considers this. “It is a good plan. But will fifty men be enough, even for a short time?”

“Slave barracks close to armory,” Strong Belwas declares. “Once enough masters is killed, slaves raid armory, take more weapons, arm more slaves.”

“It will work,” Jon agrees. “The Meereenese will be too busy trying to quell the rebellion inside to notice the enemy coming in from the outside. Besides, their army is nothing compared to ours. They hide behind their walls and send painted champions for single combat; how will they stop an army of nine thousand, most of whom are former slaves thirsty for blood? How will they stop all twenty thousand of their slaves when they carry weapons and no longer fear the masters’ whips?”

Dany’s lips curve in a smile. “I think you may have the right of it. Grey Worm, how soon can the Unsullied be ready?”

“As soon as my queen commands.”

“Have them ready tonight, then.”

When Grey Worm and Strong Belwas have left, Dany turns to Jon. “It almost seems too easy.”

He pops a grape into his mouth. “Sometimes the simplest plan is the most effective.”

“You don’t see  _ any _ way this could go wrong?”

He swallows. “Well, there’s always something that could go wrong, but I don’t think it will this time. This is the third city you’ve conquered in less than a month, of course it feels too easy.”

Dany is quiet for a moment, petting Viserion. “I worry…”

“What?”

“What happens when we leave?” she asks, and that surprises him.

“When we leave?”

“When we leave. I came to Astapor for an army. I came to Yunkai to free its slaves. Now I come to Meereen to free her slaves, and when I have done that, what then? Most of Astapor’s slaves follow me, and so have many of Yunkai’s. Will the slaves of Yunkai and Meereen follow me across the Narrow Sea? What will they do there? And how do I know that the masters will not wrap their chains around freed slaves as soon as I am gone?”

Jon does not understand. “You killed the slavers of Astapor and Yunkai.”

“Most, but not all. And even if I could ensure that Slaver’s Bay could rule without slaves, we still don’t have enough ships to get to Westeros. And as for our army...the Unsullied may be lethal here, but in Westeros, where the high lords of each kingdom can summon an army of equal, if not greater, strength?”

“You will have more armies in Westeros,” he protests. “Dorne and the North are with you, and the Riverlands will likely join our cause.”

“ _ Likely _ . But it is not certain.”

“Even if they did not, Dorne, the North, and the Unsullied are enough to take on the rest of the kingdom,” Jon reminds her. “And you have dragons.”

“They are still too small to ride, let alone inspire fear in the hearts of men.”

“Then wait until they are bigger. Westeros will still be there. And perhaps by the time the dragons are big enough, new leadership will have been found for the three cities, and you will not fear to leave them behind.”

“I don’t know…”

“I do. You are the prince that was promised. Your place is on the Iron Throne. Freeing the slaves of Slaver’s Bay is good and righteous, but it is not where your story ends.”

She smiles at him. “You have more faith in me than I do.”

“I have seen you walk from the fire with dragons hatched from stone, I have seen you lead a  _ khalasar _ across the Red Waste, I have seen you destroy the warlocks of Qarth, and now I see you break the chains of every slave in Slaver’s Bay. I will see you take the Iron Throne and destroy the army of the dead before my time in this world is done.”

Her smile widens. “Thank you, Jon.”

“You’re welcome.” He kisses her forehead. “Now, let’s prepare; you have a city to win, my queen.”

.

By the first rays of dawn’s light, the Targaryen banner flies from atop the Great Pyramid of Meereen. The gates are thrown wide open, but in truth, there’s little work for the Unsullied to do; once the Meereenese slaves had been armed, they made quick work of their masters. 

They cheer Dany as she enters the city, throwing their collars at her feet as they cry,  _ “Mhysa, Mhysa!” _

Jon follows his aunt, proud and victorious. She is surrounded by little children, but even the old men and women reach out to touch her. She smiles and holds out her hands, letting all of them touch her as she and her counselors ascend the stone paths until they can see thousands of rejoicing slaves below them. Rejoicing slaves, and the masters who had survived the slaughter, wearing chains of their own now.

“Remind me, Jon,” she calls over the cheers, “how many children did the Great Masters nail to mileposts?”

“One hundred and sixty-three, my queen.”

“Yes, that was it.” She turns to look at Grey Worm, who nods. The Unsullied begin shepherding away the masters. They choose one hundred and sixty-three and nail those men to crosses, their arms pointing towards the Great Pyramid. The air is full of the sound of their screams and the smell of their blood and bowels, but high atop the Great Pyramid, Jon and Dany cannot hear or smell them. They look out over the city of Meereen and wonder if this is how Aegon and his sisters once felt.


	47. THEON V

The journey through the Kingswood is blissfully uneventful. The brotherhood, as they have taken to calling themselves, are a merry lot who accept Theon and Robb easily into their ranks. Those days they spend wandering north are spent singing, drinking, and hunting, sometimes all three together. Theon gets to know all of the other men; besides Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, Edric Dayne, and Gendry, there’s Lem Lemoncloak, an enormous man who wears a lemon-yellow cloak; Pello Greenbeard, a Tyroshi who is even taller than Lem; Jack-Be-Lucky, who has one eye; Tom of Sevenstreams, a minstrel who can’t stop singing and who claims to have bedded half the women in the Riverlands; Anguy, the archer who won the archery contest at the tourney in King’s Landing; and Jon O’Nutten, Puddingfoot, and Kyle, who are all members of Beric’s household and content to follow their lord wherever he chooses to go.

Of these men, Theon’s favorite--and at the same time, least favorite--is Anguy, with whom he feels constantly compelled to compete. It began as an archery contest, a rematch for the one in King’s Landing, but it spans over days, going from who can eat their dinner the fastest to who can catch more rabbits to who can ride the fastest. By the time they’ve left the Kingswood and follow the Blackwater Rush northwest to Stony Sept, the contests have become so ridiculous that Beric sometimes has to separate the two lest they get themselves killed.

As soon as the men cross over the rush and land in Stony Sept, they make straight for The Peach, a brothel which Tom claims is the sweetest in the Riverlands.

The buxom red-haired innkeep greets them at the door, hooting with excited laughter. “Tom o’ Sevens, you randy old goat! You come to see that son o’ yours? Well, you’re too late, he’s off hunting. And don’t tell me he’s not yours!” 

“He hasn’t got my voice,” Tom protests weakly. 

“He’s got your nose, though. Aye, and t’other parts as well, to hear the girls talk.” She looks at Robb and Theon and beams, pinching their cheeks. “Look at these fine young oxen. Wait till Alyce sees those arms. Oh, and this one blushes like a maid, too. Well, Alyce will fix that for you, boy, see if she don’t. I warn you,” she adds as she leads the men inside, “We’re plenty busy tonight, so some of you lads might have to share or go without.”

“Thoros and I will go without,” Beric says.

“And me,” Edric Dayne says quickly. “Please, my lord, can I stay in the stables with the grooms?”

“As you wish.”

They are the only three who offer to go without; the others join the merriment inside, finding food and drink and what wenches they can. Theon, Robb, and Gendry stand off to the side, trying to decide their best course of action.

A pretty wench with a mop of black curls comes up to them, smiling. “These two have a highborn look about them,” she decides, looking at Theon and Robb.

“And what would you know about it?” Theon asks with a smile.

“I’m a king’s daughter myself.” 

“You are not,” Gendry snorts.

“Well, I might be.” When the girl shrugs, her gown slips off one shoulder, and Theon has an urge to kiss the creamy white skin there. “They say King Robert fucked my mother when he hid here, back before the battle. Not that he didn’t have all the other girls too, but Leslyn says he liked my ma the best.” 

Theon and Robb exchange looks and then look over at Gendry, who shakes his head vehemently.

“I’m named Bella,” she continues, oblivious to the interaction. “For the battle. I bet I could ring  _ your _ bells, too. You want to?”

“Will you ring my friend’s, too?”

She smiles prettily. “I’ll ring anything you like.”

“Don’t,” Gendry says, pained. 

“What’s wrong with him?” she asks.

“You just remind him of his sister, is all,” Theon lies, already draping an arm over her shoulders. “Don’t mind him.”

Gendry points an accusatory finger at them both. “If you do this, I’ll...I’ll have your sisters.”

Theon and Robb look at each other and then burst into laughter. Arms around Bella, they let her take them upstairs, where she rings their bells all through the night.

.

In the morning, Theon wakes when someone shakes his shoulder. He cracks open heavy eyes to find Edric Dayne standing at the bedside, looking nervous.

“What is it?”

But Edric looks over at the sleeping Robb and Bella and shakes his head. He waits while Theon pulls on his clothes and meets him out in the hall.

“Well?”

Edric speaks quietly. “I was talking to some of the stableboys...your father, Lord Balon...he’s declared himself King of the Iron Islands again.”

Theon feels his stomach drop. King of the Iron Islands. He’d sworn not to do it again, and had given over his last remaining son as assurance. If he ever tried to rise against the crown again, he would pay for it with his son’s life.

_ But he rose up in rebellion anyway. _

Hadn’t Asha tried to warn him? Hadn’t she tried to tell him that the ironborn would never take him back, that he was as dead to their father as Rodrik and Maron? 

_ He doesn’t care if Robert or Cassana or whoever takes my head. I’ve been dead for years to him. _

“Theon?” Edric asks uncertainly. 

“I need a drink,” he mumbles, lurching off in search of ale, wine, something,  _ anything _ to wash the sour taste from his mouth. 

That’s how Robb, Edric, Beric, and Thoros find him, sitting at one of the benches in the hall. It had been bustling with life last night, but now it’s bare and empty, with abandoned plates and cups and spilled wine and ale all over the place. Theon stares into his cup, stomach turning too much to drink the ale before him.

“She told me,” he says in a thick voice. “Asha. She told me I was dead to our father. I should’ve listened. I should’ve stayed with her.” He feels tears prick his eyes. “Now if I return North, Lord Stark will kill me.”

“He won’t,” Robb says, but they both know that his father is a dutiful man. 

“It would be unwise for you to go to Winterfell,” Thoros says gently. 

“Then where can I go? Winterfell is the only home I know.”

He could go back to Dorne, he supposes. Arianne may shelter him as Asha had said.  _ But what if she doesn’t? _

“You’ll stay with us,” Beric decides. “What is it you called us, Thoros? A brotherhood without banners? So shall we be. As I said in the Kingswood, we had no destination in mind. Robb and Edric and Gendry may ride on to Winterfell if they please, but Thoros and I will stay in the Riverlands, and I’m sure most of the others will, too. You need not fear for your life in our company.”

“I’ll stay,” Robb says at once. “You are my brother, now and always. I’ll not leave you here.”

“I’ll stay too,” Edric says fiercely. “I would never leave one of my brothers behind.”

That makes the tears come harder, and Theon rubs his eyes until they’re red. He’s never belonged to a group of people like this before. Even with the Starks, he’d known that one misstep from his father could get him killed. He is a traitor’s son, as Sansa and Jeyne Poole had reminded him. But here, he is part of a brotherhood, and no one will kill him for his father’s crimes.


	48. CASSANA IV

Cersei’s trial is scheduled for a fortnight hence. This gives Cassie enough time to find witnesses to testify against the Lannister woman. There is no shortage of people who were wronged by Cersei, but key of all is her own husband. Uncle Renly is gaunt and red-eyed when Cassie sees him, but he swears he will testify against his wife, no matter what.

He sends Tommen and Myrcella home to Storm’s End, not wanting them to watch their mother’s trial. The cousins all cry when they must part with each other, but in her heart, Cassie knows it’s for the best. They should not be here to watch their mother put on trial for being a murderess.

“Send for us soon,” Myrcella begs. 

“I will.”

But as they ride away, Cassie wonders if she’ll be able to keep such a promise.

.

On the morning of the trial, Cassie sits with the courtiers in the galley. As her Regent, Uncle Stannis sits on the Iron Throne, waiting until everyone is seated before calling the Kingsguard to bring forth the accused.

Cersei looks worse for wear; though she has been permitted a maid to bring her her clothes and jewels, there is no denying the tired look about her, and even the water and combs she has been permitted can do nothing to restore the former sheen to her golden hair. She looks haggard, yet when she takes the stand, her wrists chained, she sits in elegant defiance.

The High Septon begins with a prayer to the Father Above to guide them to justice. As soon as he is finished, Uncle Stannis asks, “Lady Cersei, did you kill King Robert and attempt to kill the queen and myself?”

“Of course not,” she says coolly.

“Your husband saw you empty a vial of poison into the wine we were to drink that night. Do you deny it?”

“Yes.”

_ She denies it even now, _ Cassie thinks savagely.  _ Would I could kill her myself. _

“There are witnesses against you. We shall hear them first. Then you may present your own witnesses. You are to speak only with my leave.”

After a moment, she inclines her head, stiffly. 

The first witnesses they bring out are Father’s squires. The boys describe how the king had acted when he went to bed the night before he died; drunker than usual, dizzy and weaving. In the early hours of the morning, he’d been sicker than they’d ever seen him, and a few hours later he was dead. 

The next witness is the serving boy who waited on Father, Uncle Stannis, and Uncle Renly at dinner. He claims the king drank a good deal, but there’s a twitchiness to him that Cassie mistrusts.

Uncle Stannis sees it too, and frowns. “I dined with my brother that night, and he did not drink overmuch.”

The boy sweats. “Pardon, milord, but I filled his cup...many times…”

“Do you lie?”

He twitches harder. “N-no…”

“You swore an oath to tell the truth.”

“Lying in the face of the gods is a grievous sin,” the High Septon reminds the boy. 

The boy starts shaking, hard. “Please...I’m just a serving boy, I didn’t...I don’t know…”

“Did Cersei Lannister pay you to lie?” Uncle Stannis asks sharply. “Did she pay you to poison the king?”

The boy breaks down in sobs. “Mercy, milord, mercy!”

“Did she pay you off, boy? Answer me truly.”

“She did,” he sobs, and the galleys fill with gasps. “She gave me a special cup and told me to make sure the king drank from it. She told me she’d make me a lord. Please, milord!”

“Take him away,” Uncle Stannis says in disgust, and Ser Mandon Moore roughly escorts the boy away from the stand, his sobs filling the throne room until he’s gone.

The next witness they call is Maester Frenken, who attests that two vials of Tears of Lys were missing from the stores, and that the king’s death matches the symptoms.

“Odorless, tasteless, and clear as water, it is one of the most effective poisons,” he says, fingering the chain around his neck. “It eats at the bowels and brings on a sudden, incurable illness.”

“Grand Maester Pycelle ruled my brother’s death a sudden illness.”

“As I said, it brings on a sudden and incurable illness.” Maester Frenken swallows nervously. “But, begging your pardon, my lord, Grand Maester Pycelle ought to have examined the king more closely. Or perhaps, he did not wish to.”

“What mean you by this?”

Maester Frenken swallows again. “Grand Maester Pycelle has always been loyal to House Lannister. If the accusations made against Lady Cersei are true, perhaps that would explain Grand Maester Pycelle’s judgment...and why he did not notice the missing Tears of Lys, though it is a rare and expensive poison.”

Murmurs fill the galleys, and Cassie grips the hand of Shireen beside her. 

“You accuse Grand Maester Pycelle of conspiring with Cersei Lannister to kill the king?”

“I make no accusations, my lord,” Maester Frenken says humbly. “I only suggested.”

“This is an outrage!” Pycelle declares from the galleys. “I would never!”

“It is not your turn to speak, Grand Maester,” Uncle Stannis says sharply. “Thank you, Maester Frenken.”

The maester steps down and takes a seat far from the grand maester.

The next and final witness is Uncle Renly. He is gaunt and hollow-eyed, but his voice is strong when he swears to tell the truth.

“Renly,” Uncle Stannis says quietly, “tell us what you saw the night the queen and I were dining with Mace Tyrell.”

He clears his throat. “That night, I was dining privately with Lord Tyrell’s younger son, Ser Loras. I know Ser Loras is fond of Arbor gold, and I knew my brother Robert kept a rare vintage in his store. Robert and I borrowed wine from each other often, and I did not think the queen would mind if I took a bottle.” He clears his throat again. “When I went into the queen’s kitchen, I saw my wife standing over a cask of wine, emptying a vial of clear liquid into it. It was not hard to guess what she was doing. I asked her, and she said...she said, ‘This is our fate, husband. You were meant to be king, and I your queen.’ When she said that, I realized what she meant to do...and I realized what she had done. I said, ‘Did you kill Robert?’ And she smiled at me.”

The galleys erupt in murmurs. Cassie grips Shireen’s hand even harder, hoping her uncle’s testimony will be enough to convince the commons. 

“Then what happened?” Uncle Stannis asks with uncharacteristic gentleness.

Uncle Renly takes a deep breath. “Then, we heard servants coming, so she pulled me into another room and begged me not to tell anyone. I was...disoriented. I could not believe my wife was a murderess. She told me that years ago, a woodswitch had prophesied that she would become queen. She talked for so long that I finally realized...she was trying to distract me. I pushed away from her and ran to find you. The wine had been poured, but thank goodness, no one had drunk it yet.”

“Thank you, Renly,” Uncle Stannis says, but Uncle Renly grips the witness stand.

“If I may...I have more to say.”

Uncle Stannis looks surprised, but he nods. “Very well.”

Uncle Renly takes a deep breath. “I bring another accusation against my wife.”

More murmurs fill the galleys, and Cassie exchanges a look with Uncle Stannis. 

“Another? Name it.”

Uncle Renly does not once look at Cersei, but her eyes are full of flame. 

“The children Tommen and Myrcella...are not mine.”

Gasps fill the hall, and Cassie and Shireen exchange wide eyed looks.

_ Not his? _ Is this the real reason he sent them away? Because he knew he was going to disown them in front of everyone?

“What do you mean?” Uncle Stannis demands. 

“I mean, they are not mine. I have never so much as lain with my wife.”

More gasps erupt, and with a pained look, Uncle Renly continues, “I was too ashamed to admit it, but...I could not...I could not consummate my marriage with Cersei. I have had others, but I could not...not with her. She took pity on me and told me it was not necessary. We agreed that as long as she was discreet in her affairs, any child she bore I would claim as my own.”

Uncle Stannis looks as shocked as Cassie feels. “You swear it?”

“By the old gods and the new,” Uncle Renly declares solemnly.

Uncle Stannis sinks back in his throne. All the courtiers are talking now, eyes wide with disbelief. 

_ Can it be true? _ Cassie wonders. 

When Uncle Stannis orders silence, all eyes are on Uncle Renly and Cersei, breathless.

“Cersei,” Uncle Stannis begins, slowly, “is it true that Tommen and Myrcella are not Renly’s children?”

She’s quiet for a moment.

“It is true.”

More gasps.

“I had my husband’s leave,” she insists. “He’s right, he could never consummate our marriage...because he prefers the company of men.”

More gasps. Cassie and Shireen exchange another look. Is  _ this _ true? Or is this another one of Cersei’s lies?

“Sodomy is a serious allegation,” the High Septon warns.

“So is murder,” she fires back. “My lords, is it not obvious? Renly feared I would make his secret known, and invented these lies to silence me. Tommen and Myrcella are not trueborn Baratheons, no, but Renly acknowledged them as his children and gave them the Baratheon name all the same, knowing all the while they were another man’s children.”

“Then you still deny it? That you killed Robert and attempted to kill the queen and myself?”

“Of course I deny it,” she snaps. “It is a lie. Did anyone but Renly see me allegedly pour Tears of Lys in the cask of wine?”

“How do you explain the serving boy, who swears you gave him a cup meant for the king?” 

“Another lie, intended to make me look guilty.”

Uncle Stannis sits back, frustrated. “Enough. We will reconvene on the morrow, when you may present your witnesses.” 

The guards take her away and clear out the throne room. Cassie does not wait; she makes for the small council chamber, where her uncles follow her. 

As soon as the door is closed, she turns to Uncle Renly.

“It’s true? You swear it?”

“Yes,” he says emphatically.

“How could you never tell me?” Uncle Stannis asks, looking almost betrayed.

Uncle Renly shakes his head. “How could I have? Admit that in all our years of marriage, I’d never once been able to consummate it? I’d be the laughingstock of Westeros.”

“Do you know who the father is?” Uncle Stannis asks. “If we can find him, he can bear witness…”

Uncle Renly shakes his head. “I do not. I never asked. And she never asked about...my own affairs.”

Cassie hesitates. “Are you truly...do you truly prefer the company of men, Uncle Renly?”

His hesitation is all the answer she needs.

“It’s alright,” she reassures him, taking his hand in hers. “I won’t tell anyone.”

His smile is weak. “Thank you, little Cass.”

“There must be someone who knows,” Uncle Stannis muses. “If her lover himself does not come forward.”

“Does it matter?” Cassie asks. “She’s admitted to the adultery, what we need her to confess to is the  _ murder. _ ”

“I can still sentence her to death. I have that right.”

Uncle Renly goes to the window, breathing deeply. “The children would never forgive me.”

“They are not your children,” Uncle Stannis says, not unkindly, “and it is their mother they must choose to forgive, or not.”

“They are not my children by blood, but I still think of them as mine. I held them when they were less than an hour old, I raised them as mine and gave them my name.”

“And Cersei lied to them and all the world about their birth,” Uncle Stannis reminds him. “Put it from your mind, Renly.”

Cassie paces up and down the room. “Do we know who Cersei’s witnesses are?”

“Her brother Jaime, for one.”

That bodes ill. “Is he allowed to testify for the accused? As a knight of the kingsguard?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Who else?”

“Grand Maester Pycelle.”

_ Damn. _ “People will listen to him.”

“At best, we can reveal his part in your father’s death. At worst, we can make him out to be a senile old fool too incompetent to rule the cause of death.”

That is some comfort. “Who else?”

“She sent for her father, Lord Tywin, but he has not responded.”

“Is that all?”

“That’s all.”

That seems ludicrous good luck. “That won’t be so bad, I suppose.”

“Be careful, Cass,” Uncle Renly warns. “She’s a devious woman, Cersei. Just because she only has two witnesses does not mean they will not change the tide. Or she may call a surprise witness from the stand, one we did not see coming.”

“Can she do that?”

“Unfortunately,” Uncle Stannis says, disgruntled.

She bites her lip. “Then we must needs be prepared.” 

“She will not walk away unharmed,” Uncle Stannis promises. 

Cassie wants to be reassured by that, but she spends all night tossing and turning, unable to sleep for fear that Cersei will steal out of the black cells and poison her. When dawn breaks, she is so tired and on edge that she can barely hold down her breakfast, and manages only a little bread and pomegranate juice. 

Cersei wears a different gown today, a deep Lannister crimson lined with gold. She sits stiff in her seat, waiting and watching as Uncle Stannis calls forward Grand Maester Pycelle.

The old man makes a show of how difficult it is to get into the stand, leaning heavily on Ser Boros Blount to help him. Cassie has no doubt that the old man is frail, but this struggle is a mummer’s farce. She watches with contempt, wondering how long he’s played this game.

“Grand Maester,” Uncle Stannis booms as soon as the maester is seated. “You examined my brother Robert after his death, did you not?”

“Yes, my lord,” the maester says in a weak voice. “And tended to him on his deathbed.”

“You claim illness took him, yet Maester Frenken suggests it was poison.”

“Maester Frenken is younger than myself, eh, more inexperienced. I must also point out that he did not tend to King Robert in his final hours, nor examine his body after.”

Damn. Cassie had not thought of that.

Uncle Stannis does not look deterred. “Yesterday a serving boy admitted to accepting a poisoned cup from Cersei Lannister. Maester Frenken believes the symptoms align with the Tears of Lys, two vials of which were missing from the maester’s stores. Then my brother Renly swears he saw Cersei pouring Tears of Lys into a cask of wine meant for myself and the queen, which was later proven to be poisoned. How do you account for that?”

Grand Maester Pycelle makes a wheezing sort of sound. “As Lady Cersei suggested, perhaps the boy was lying. I have not counted any missing Tears of Lys among my stores--and I would know, as it is a rare and costly poison. As for Lord Renly, well, who can say? He was the only witness to this event he claims happened.”

“Yet the wine  _ was _ poisoned,” Uncle Stannis barks. “It was tested. You claim Renly was lying, then? That someone else poisoned the wine?”

Pycelle shifts uncomfortably. “Perhaps...the same person who killed King Robert and Jon Arryn…”

“Yet you just said King Robert died of illness, and earlier, you claimed Jon Arryn also died of illness,” Uncle Stannis interrupts. “Either there is a pandemic at court, Grand Maester, or you are as incompetent as you are untrustworthy.”

Some of the commons snigger, and the maester shifts uncomfortably again. “My lord, these words are unkind--”

“They were not meant to be kind.” Uncle Stannis nods at Ser Mandon Moore. “Remove him; I’ve had all of his lies I can stomach.”

Ser Mandon Moore takes the maester away none too gently, depositing him roughly on a bench.

“I call to the stand Ser Jaime Lannister,” Uncle Stannis orders, and it takes two members of the Kingsguard to escort their brother-in-arms to the stand.

He looks unwell, his white cloak soiled and a patchy beard growing on his face. Uncle Stannis had ordered him to stay in the black cells as punishment for his defense of Cersei, and he looks the worse for wear because of it. Even his golden hair looks dark, less a burnished gold and more a muddy copper.

“Ser Jaime,” Uncle Stannis says after the knight has sworn to tell the truth. “You have agreed to testify in favor of your sister, Lady Cersei.”

“I have.”

“What evidence do you have that she is innocent of the crimes she has been charged with?”

“I know nothing about King Robert’s death,” he says almost lazily. “Or the wine you claim she poisoned. I was in the White Tower when this event supposedly took place, and I was imprisoned for trying to defend her honor.”

“You attempted to obstruct justice, ser.”

“How is it justice to accuse an innocent woman of a crime she did not commit?”

“A moment ago you claim to have no knowledge, and now you say she is innocent. Which is it, Ser Jaime?”

“I did not have to be a witness to know my sister is incapable of such things.”

Uncle Stannis studies him. Then, “You famously slew your king twenty years ago. My brother forgave you, but I wonder if he was right to.”

Jaime Lannister sneers. “Yes, you all love to bring that up. Robert was happy enough to take the throne I kept warm for him, yet I was made to beg for his forgiveness all the same.”

“Take care how you speak, ser,” Uncle Stannis says sharply.

“I swore to tell the truth, didn’t I? There it is. I killed an evil man, and when the man who meant to kill that evil man came striding up after the battle, he made me beg for forgiveness, as if it was some great crime and not the very thing he himself would have done. Was I supposed to die defending a man who wanted my family dead?”

“You put aside your family when you take the white cloak, ser.”

“No you don’t,” he says lazily. “You put aside your lands and titles, but not your family, else we would all take on new names when joining the kingsguard. My name is still Lannister, and I am still a lion of the Rock.”

Cersei looks infinitely proud of her brother. 

Cassie doesn’t know how she figures it out...but when she leans over and whispers in Shireen’s ear, the other girl’s eyes bug out of her head before she nods and scurries up to the throne. Uncle Stannis watches her warily, but when she whispers in his ear, his eyes also bug out of his head.

“Ser Jaime,” he says warily, turning back to the Lannisters. “Are you the father of your sister’s children?”

The room sucks in a collective breath as they wait.

It’s a long moment before Jaime says, “Yes.”

The gasps and even screams that follow sound muffled and faraway to Cassie, who can only stare at the Lannister twins. 

“Jaime,” Cersei hisses, but he looks proud and defiant.

Uncle Stannis tries calling for order, but Ser Barristan whispers in his ear, and his eyes bug out a second time.

“We will take a recess,” he declares when enough of the room has quieted. “We will reconvene in an hour.” He gets up and nods for Cassie to join him. She walks swiftly out of the throne room and into the small council chamber.

“What is it?”

“Tywin Lannister marches on us with most of the Westerlands behind him.”

Cassie grips the chair before her. “Truly?”

“Truly. We have just had word.” Uncle Stannis sits down, rubbing his forehead. “He will declare war if anything happens to his daughter.”

“Does he know? About...her and Ser Jaime?”

“If he does, he will deny it.”

“But Ser Jaime has already said it’s true.”

“He has. That is our one saving grace. But even so, incest and murder are two different things.”

She bites her lip. “If you rule that she murdered my father and attempted to murder us…”

“Lord Tywin will not take that sitting down, not if she denies it. He will say it is unfair.”

“But what can we  _ do _ ?” she presses. 

Agitated, he says, “There is little we  _ can _ do. To kill her means risking the wrath of the Westerlands, to exonerate her means letting justice go unserved. I have no doubt she killed your father, but either way, we must pay a heavy price for it.”

Cassie can feel herself start to panic. “But...but what will you do?”

He inhales deeply through his nose. “I don’t know, Cassana, I truly do not.” He shifts in his seat. “Women cannot take the black...but perhaps there is a third option.”

“What?”

“Banish her from Westeros. Let her live, but do not let her go unpunished. Even Lord Tywin can hardly object to that.”

She bites her lip. “I suppose…”

“I know it’s not what you want, little Cass...but the Lannisters have sacked this city once to put a king of their choosing on the throne, and they will do it again if they can. You know what Tywin Lannister is capable of, what he’s done?”

She does know. Everyone knows about the Tarbecks and the Reynes of Castamere. And the Sack of King’s Landing, of course. He could do it again. 

“I trust you to do what is right,” she says uncertainly.

“Then I pray I will not let you down.”

.

When they reconvene, Cersei has a contemptuous sort of smile on her face. 

_ She knows, _ Cassie realizes at once.  _ She knows her father is mustering an army and will kill us all if it will exonerate her. _

“Cersei Lannister,” Uncle Stannis says when the room has quieted. “How do you plead?”

Cersei lifts her head, looking as proud and defiant as her brother Jaime. “I am a lion of the Rock; I do not plead, nor will I yield to your judgment, for I know I shall receive no true justice here. I call instead for a trial by combat.”

Uncle Stannis looks unhappy. “You have that right.”

Cersei smiles. “I name as my champion Ser Gregor Clegane.”

_ Seven hells, _ Cassie thinks.  _ She’ll win this trial after all. _


	49. ARYA II

As soon as they get back to Winterfell, Father calls the banners.

From the warmth and height of their mother’s solar, Arya and Sansa watch as all the Northern lords answer the call. They see the bear of House Mormont, the silver fist of House Glover, the battle-axe of House Cerwyn, the blazing sun of House Karstark, the flayed man of House Bolton, the mermaid of House Manderly, the long-axes of House Dustin, the grey hand of House Flint of Flint’s Finger and the eyes of House Flint of Widow’s Watch, the bullmoose of House Hornwood, the lizard-lion of House Reed, the black horse of House Ryswell, the sentinel trees of House Tallhart, and the roaring giant of House Umber. 

“It’s treason,” Sansa says whenever anyone will listen--which isn’t often. Even Jeyne seems to grow tired of her company at times. “Father shouldn’t be calling the banners against the crown.”

“He isn’t calling them against the crown, he’s calling them to defend the North  _ from _ the crown,” Arya reminds her.

“He should have told the truth from the beginning.”

That angers Arya. “If he had, King Robert would have killed Jon.”

“Aunt Lyanna could have taken him away.”

“And then we’d never see her or Jon.”

“Better than lying for twenty years.”

“You’re just mad because you had to leave Lord Edric,” Arya snaps. “You wouldn’t be complaining if you weren’t in love with him.”

“Everything was perfect, and Father and Aunt Lyanna ruined it!” Sansa cries--not for the first time. “I was going to marry Lord Edric and become the Lady of Starfall!”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do! Melisandre saw it in the fire!”

“You don’t even like Melisandre.”

Sansa huffs. “You can be such a child, Arya.”

“At least I’m not the one mooning over some silly boy.”

“He’s  _ not _ a silly boy, he’s the  _ Lord of Starfall, _ and I shall never see him again!” 

Septa Mordane enters with a sigh. “Sansa, please, I know you are upset, but you  _ must _ learn to listen to your father. A godly daughter is one who is chaste,  _ silent _ , and obedient.”

“I am godly, but my father is a traitor!”

The septa’s eyes go cold. “That is no way to speak of your father, young lady.”

“But it’s the truth!”

Septa Mordane sits beside her on the window seat. “Sansa, do you know why I am still here, even though House Stark does not follow the Light of the Seven?”

That gives Sansa pause.

“Why are you?” Arya asks genuinely curious.

Septa Mordane folds her hands primly in her lap. “I am here because I made an agreement with your family. A promise, to look after the both of you and raise you into proper ladies. Part of this promise means shielding you from the cruelties of this world, and giving you the tools to protect yourselves when I cannot.”

_ That _ sounds like a load of tripe to Arya, but curiosity has the better of her, so she waits for the septa to continue.

“Your father made a promise to do the same for your cousin, Jon Snow. He promised to look after him and raise him into a proper young man. He shielded him from the cruelties of this world, from King Robert’s wroth, and gave him the tools to protect himself across the Narrow Sea. He made a  _ promise _ , and he has held to that promise, even when it cost him dearly. We serve different gods, your father and I, but we are not so different. We both love the children put into our care, and we made--and keep--promises to protect them.” When Sansa looks unsure, the septa continues, “What house is your mother from?”

“House Tully,” Sansa says at once.

“And what are their words?”

“Family, Duty, Honor.”

Septa Mordane nods. “Family, Duty, Honor. Family above all others.”

Sansa looks troubled. “So...even though what my father and my aunt did is treason...we should stand by them? Because they’re our family.”

“ _ Yes _ ,” Septa Mordane says emphatically. 

Arya reaches over to take her sister’s hand. “Remember what Father always says? When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies…”

“...but the pack survives,” Sansa finishes. 

“In the eyes of the crown, yes, what your father did is treason,” Septa Mordane agrees. “But he made a promise to protect his sister and her son. Now, he calls the banners to protect you.” 

Sansa looks startled. “To protect  _ me _ ?”

“You, and your family. Arya, your mother, Robb, Bran, Rickon, your aunt and your cousin Jon. You are his pack, as you say, and winter is coming.”

Sansa looks chastened. “I should apologize to Father. For the way I’ve acted.”

“I would say that is the honorable thing to do.” 

Head down, Sansa leaves the room to find Father. 

Arya fixes Septa Mordane with a curious look. “Do you really love us, Septa? Or did you only say that to make Sansa be kinder to Father?”

“Of course I love you,” Septa Mordane says, shocked. “I know I can be...stern, at times…”

Arya snorts. 

Septa Mordane sits beside her. “I’m sorry, if I have been...unkind. It is not for lack of care, I promise you. The world is unkind to women who do not follow its rules. Your parents entrusted you into my care with the understanding that I would have you become a proper young lady ready for marriage.”

Arya shifts uncomfortably. “I don’t want to become a proper young lady ready for marriage.”

“Yes; I’ve discovered that,” the septa says wryly. 

Arya looks down at her hands. A blacksmith’s hands, Septa Mordane had once said. “I’m sorry. I do  _ try _ to be good.”

Septa Mordane sighs. “I know you do. It took me a long time to realize it, but you do. You are simply not cut from the same cloth as your sister.”

“Everyone wants me to be her, but I’m not Sansa. I’m  _ Arya _ .”

“You are,” the septa agrees, and she sighs again. “I suppose none of it matters now. We may soon be at war, and it won’t matter how well you can curtsy or how neat your stitches are then.”

_ War. _ The thought excites Arya more than it should. She’ll never be allowed to fight in it, of course, but that doesn’t stop her from imagining she’s cutting down southern foes when she drills with Dacey Mormont, who has agreed to train her. All the Mormont women know how to fight, and Dacey is a much better instructor than Ser Rodrik and Ser Aron Santagar. She doesn’t look down on Arya for being a girl or act like it’s a waste of her time. 

“Are you going to fight? If it comes to war?” Arya asks when she drills with Dacey that afternoon.

“My place is by your aunt’s side, defending her. And if it comes down to it, aye, I’ll fight.”

“I wish I could fight,” Arya says wistfully.

“Who says you can’t?”

“Everyone.”

“Seems to me  _ everyone _ is a fool. Do you think my mother listened when people told her she couldn’t? Or her daughters? Or your aunt?”

Arya bites her lip. “What if...what if my father doesn’t like it?”

Dacey laughs heartily. “Little Stark, he’s enlisted three different people to teach you how to fight, one of whom is a woman fighter herself. I think he’s more than made peace with your ways.”

Arya’s never thought about it like that before. Maybe she could be like Maege Mormont, and dress as she likes and fight when she wants and not listen to anyone who tries to tell her differently.

_ I’m not the lady they all want me to be, _ she thinks, twirling Needle.  _ That’s not me. _

.

When all of Father’s bannermen have assembled, he holds court in the great hall. At first, he had not wanted Arya and Sansa to come, but they’d put up such a great fuss that he’d eventually caved. Even so, he makes them keep to the back, where they won’t be in anyone’s way.

For his own part, he sits in the high seat at the head of the hall, Aunt Lyanna in a plain chair beside him. 

_ He looks like a king, _ Arya thinks proudly, watching the way her father’s stern and noble face observes the men and women in his hall. With his hands on the direwolves carved into the arms of his chair, a silver direwolf pin at his chest, and Ghost sitting at his feet, he looks every inch like his ancestors, the Kings in the North. 

“I know you have all heard rumors,” he says when the hall has quieted. “So I want to make one thing clear. What you heard about my sister is true. The bastard boy I raised as mine is the son of my sister and Rhaegar Targaryen.” He raises his hand, silencing the murmurs before they can grow too loud. “He is in Essos now with his aunt, Daenerys Targaryen. My sister has been working to restore the Targaryens to the Iron Throne, but neither she nor I poisoned Jon Arryn, nor King Robert.”

Murmurs fill the hall, but one voice rings out among the rest.

“Why?” Robett Glover asks. “Why do you seek to put a Targaryen on the throne? Rhaegar took you, and raped you, and Robert fought a war to bring you back.”

Aunt Lyanna takes a moment to answer. “I did not love Rhaegar, it’s true, and Robert was my husband. But Rhaegar believed in a prophecy that even now is being fulfilled.”

More murmurs rise at this, but she carries on as if there had been no interruption. “Rhaegar believed that someone in his family was the prince that was promised, the Last Hero reborn to fight the darkness one last time. The Night’s Watch reports that men wake from the dead to attack their brothers; deserters flee from the Wall, claiming they saw the Others. The Army of the Dead is coming again, my lords, and Daenerys Targaryen is the Last Hero reborn. We must put her on the throne so she can lead us out of the darkness.”

The murmurs rise into scattered shouts. Lord Karstark stands, pointing at Lyanna. “I’d heard your head had been turned by the red woman, but I’d not wanted to believe it. This is a wetnurse’s tale, Lady Lyanna, and you’ve been sucking at a poisoned teat.”

“Lord Karstark!” Father bellows. “Remember yourself!”

“I remember myself perfectly, my lord...but it’s you and your sister what have forgotten themselves.”

Roose Bolton rises, and though he speaks softly, he speaks with such command that everyone quiets to hear him. “What proof do you have of this prophecy, Your Grace?”

Aunt Lyanna considers him. “Proof, my lord?”

“Proof,” he repeats. “You ask us to rebel against the crown and risk our lives and the lives of our families to put a girl who’s never even been to Westeros on the throne, all for a prophecy a man twenty years dead believed in. Very well. What proof is there of this prophecy? You say the Others walk again, that dead men wake from their slumber and attack their brothers. Show us one of these dead men.”

“And how do you propose she does that?” Father asks with no small amount of irritation.

Roose Bolton shrugs. “I don’t know. But until I see one of these dead men before me, I’m not sure that I can believe Queen Lyanna’s prophecy.”

It becomes clear from the murmuring in the hall that the others cannot believe it, either. 

“Very well,” Aunt Lyanna says. “I’ll go beyond the Wall.”

“ _ No _ ,” Father says, but she ignores him.

“If it’s proof you want, it’s proof you’ll get.”

“What?” Greatjon Umber rumbles. “ _ You _ go beyond the Wall?”

“Why not?”

The Greatjon looks around for support. “Well, you’re...begging your  _ pardon _ , Your Grace, but you’re a woman!”

“And what of it?” Maege Mormont rumbles from across the room. 

The Greatjon opens and closes his mouth, lost.

“I  _ think _ what the Greatjon meant,” Aunt Lyanna says smoothly, “is that he’d like to accompany me beyond the Wall. To ensure my safety, of course.”

The room is quiet for a long moment...and then the Greatjon bursts into laughter. 

“To ensure her safety! Did you lot hear that? I’d be honored, Your Grace,” he says, bowing low. “Smalljon, you’ll have Last Hearth in my absence, so try not to make too much of a muck of things while I’m away!”

This gets some hearty laughs, and Arya exchanges a small smile with Sansa. 

“Very well,” Father says uncomfortably. “In the meantime, the North’s defenses must be secure. Ser Wylis Manderly, see to it that no man comes to White Harbor unnoticed. Lord Reed, I charge you to hold Moat Cailin--I will provide however many men you think fit. As for the rest of you, those that require proof may await my sister’s return here--those who do not may return to their lands to muster their armies.”

As soon as Father has dismissed the men, Arya rushes to accost her aunt.

“Can I come with you?”

Aunt Lyanna looks surprised, and then laughs. “Beyond the Wall? I’m afraid not.”

“Why not? You’re going, and I bet you’ll take Melisandre and Dacey Mormont.”

“I will,” she agrees. “But they are women grown, and we are all of us trained in some form of combat. You are still a child.”

“I have a sword,” Arya argues. “Dacey’s teaching me how to use it.”

“Your father would never let me take you.”

“But you’re the  _ queen _ , you can command him to do whatever you want.”

Aunt Lyanna’s smile fades. “It’s not as simple as that, I’m afraid. Stay here, Arya, and learn to better use that sword. The day will soon come when we’ll need it--and you.”


	50. CASSANA V

Tywin Lannister’s army makes camp a mile from the city gates, a sea of crimson tents and banners as far as the eye can see.

“Ten thousand,” Uncle Renly reports unhappily. “And marshaling more as we speak.”

Cassie feels a cold sort of dread in the pit of her stomach. Everyone knows what happened the last time Tywin Lannister brought men to King’s Landing. He’d sacked the city with twelve thousand men then, why not do it again with ten thousand? 

“He will wait for you to send an envoy,” Uncle Stannis says quietly. “To invite him to speak.”

“Is that...what I should do?” she asks uncertainly. 

“Yes, but you must invite him here, and refuse if he asks you to come to him.”

She sighs. “Then see it done.”

Uncle Stannis bows and leaves her. 

“What do you think he’ll do?” she asks Uncle Renly.

“Tywin Lannister is a fierce man, but I’ll give him this, he’s reasonable. He’ll be even more amenable once he knows his daughter’s trial is by combat, and her champion is undefeatable.” 

“And then what? The Mountain will kill whichever of my men stands against him and Cersei will be allowed to go free.” She considers. “Unless we put her on trial for adultery and incest--”

“--in which case the Mountain would still act as her champion.”

She wilts. “Oh. Right.”

Uncle Renly squeezes her fingers with his. “I understand, Cass--I want that woman put out of our lives once and for all. But there’s no way to do that without bringing down Lord Tywin’s wrath.”

“It’s not fair,” she finds herself saying. “She murdered my father, we  _ all _ know it, and she meant to murder Uncle Stannis and me, too. Even if we can’t prove it, she’s admitted to adultery, and her own brother confirmed that her children are his. How can she be allowed to walk away?”

“The world isn’t always fair, sweetling.”

She bites her lip. “Can’t I make her leave court?”

“I doubt she’ll want to stay, but even so, I plan to appeal to the High Septon for an annulment. The marriage was never consummated, and unconsummated marriages are dissolved all the time.”

She hadn’t considered that before. “Are they?”

“It’s one of the realm’s best kept secrets, but yes.” He hesitates. “And then, with Stannis’s blessing...I had thought to marry Margaery Tyrell.”

“Margaery Tyrell? Lord Mace’s daughter?” she asks in surprise.

“The very same.”

She furrows her brow. “But aren’t you...don’t you prefer…?”

“Men?” He smiles. “Yes, sweetling, but what better way to dispel that rumor than by immediately marrying a younger and lovelier bride? She’s quite beautiful, Margaery, and her family is sympathetic to our plight. If she claims the marriage has been consummated, then people will start to wonder why it was I could not with Cersei. They will think her old, or hideous beneath her gown, or they will say it was some vile witchcraft to keep her brother in her bed. They will say all sorts of things, and soon her accusations will be forgotten. Besides, Lord Tyrell can muster a hundred thousand men, something Lord Tywin is not like to forget. If he harbors ill feelings after the trial, he’ll think twice before marching on the city again.”

Cassie had not even thought of that. “You are very clever, Uncle Renly.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying for years.” 

.

Uncle Stannis sends an envoy bearing a crowned stag banner to Lord Tywin’s camp. They have an answer within the hour: yes, Lord Tywin would be honored to be received by Queen Cassana.

“That’s good,” Uncle Renly says when the envoy has repeated the message. “Queen Cassana. He recognizes your sovereignty.”

“As he did with King Aerys before he sacked the city,” Uncle Stannis says flatly.

“Lord Tywin is a guest and shall be accorded guest right,” Cassie says firmly. “But his army may stay in their camp. Ser Barristan, arrange an armed escort for Lord Tywin. Uncle Renly, I think you should make yourself scarce while the Lord of Casterly Rock is in the city.”

Uncle Renly bows his head. “As you command, Your Grace.”

“I suppose he’ll want to see his children while he’s here.”

“Most likely, Your Grace.”

“Then see to it they have combs and water and fresh clothes.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Cassie sighs, standing. “Well, let’s get this over with.”

.

Tywin Lannister rides into the city with his brother Kevan, three of their men, and twenty of the gold cloaks. Cassie receives them in the throne room in a gown of black velvet slashed with deep purple--and, of course, the crown on her head.

“Lord Tywin,” she says when he and his brother are bowing before her. “What means this army outside my city?”

“Your Grace,” he says, rising. “My daughter has been unfairly accused of the attempt on your life, as well as that of King Robert.”

“Unfairly or not, she has been  _ fairly _ put to a trial,” she reminds him. “And though there is a mountain of evidence stacked against her, she has requested a trial by combat, which we have agreed to honor.”

Lord Tywin’s flinty eyes betray nothing. “What evidence is there against her, Your Grace, besides that which her husband has planted?”

“Eye witnesses, a maester’s report, Tears of Lys missing from the maester’s stores, an accomplice’s confession,” she rattles off. “And that isn’t even to mention her own confession of adultery and your son’s confession of their incest.”

_ That _ gives Lord Tywin pause. “ _ Incest _ ?” he repeats, his face reddening.

“Ser Jaime admitted to being the father of her children.” Cassie tries not to smirk.  _ We’ve caught you now, you horrible man. _

Lord Tywin’s jaw clenches so hard that for a moment, he reminds her of Uncle Stannis. “I would like to see my children,” he says at long last.

“By all means. Ser Barristan, will you escort Lord Tywin and Ser Kevan to the black cells?”

Ser Barristan bows. “Of course, Your Grace.” He leads the other two men out, their backs as stiff as boards.

“Well?” she asks as soon as they are gone.

“You’ve managed to pull the rug from under him...for now,” Uncle Stannis acknowledges. “But it will not be that way for long. He’ll fire back--Ser Jaime was only lying to protect his sister, that sort of thing. He may even insist on putting Renly on trial.”

“His own daughter has requested the trial by combat,” she muses. “Even he can’t object to us carrying it out, can he?”

“He could...but he won’t. Not with Gregor Clegane as her champion. I think our best hope is to convince the High Septon to annul her marriage to Renly. Then she’ll be put back under her father’s protection, and he can scheme to marry her to whichever high lord he sees fit. With the Tyrells in our pocket, that should buy us some time.”

_ Until Jon and Daenerys sail across the sea. _

.

When Lord Tywin returns from the black cells, he is thin-lipped and unsettled. 

_ So they told him the truth, and he did not want to hear it. _

“Well?” she cannot help asking.

He swallows. “Your Grace, I cannot believe my son is telling the truth. He has ever been fond of his sister, and I believe he means to protect her reputation with this...lie.”

“Her reputation could use another lie,” she says flatly. “Are you satisfied with our granting her request for a trial by combat?”

“Yes,” he says, slow and deliberate. “I pray Your Grace grants me permission to attend the trial.”

“Of course; Lady Cersei should have her family with her.”

When he and Ser Kevan have left, she summons all the knights of her Kingsguard--save Jaime Lannister, who soils his white cloak in the black cell beside his sister’s.

“I do not like what I must ask of you,” Cassie says, swallowing. “Cersei Lannister has requested a trial by combat, and she has named Gregor Clegane as her champion. I know who he is and what he can do,” she says, seeing the color drain from their faces. “But I must have a champion. If the gods are truly just, the winner will have victory no matter who he is.” Uncle Stannis had urged her to say that last part, so that they would feel more heartened. That is the idea of a trial by combat, after all; that the gods would favor the man representing the just side. 

_ Let the gods favor my champion, whoever he may be. He’ll need it if he’s to face the Mountain Who Rides. _

To her relief, Ser Arys Oakheart steps forward and sinks to one knee. “Your Grace,” he says in a solemn voice. “Let me have the honor of championing you. If the gods are just, then I shall have victory over this Lannister dog.”

Cassie could cry for happiness. “Rise, Ser Arys,” she orders, and when he does, she comes forward to kiss his cheek. “You have my deepest and most eternal gratitude.”

“The gratitude is mine, Your Grace, for giving me this honor.”

Perhaps it will be like the songs. Perhaps he will win, even if he is facing a monster of a man. Perhaps something will go right for once.

.

The night before the trial, Cassie finds herself tossing and turning. She cannot sleep, wondering what’s going to happen. If Gregor Clegane wins, Cersei will go free, and may succeed in killing Cassie at a later time--if not to become queen, then to get revenge. But if Ser Arys wins, Cersei will be found guilty, and Lord Tywin may go back on his word and attack the city anyway.

_ Curse the woman. Why did she want to be queen so badly? _

Why  _ did _ Cersei want to be queen so badly? Of course everyone wants to be king or queen, she assumes, but the lengths Cersei went to were sure to bring suspicion down on her. 

_ Is there a cleverness to her I’m not seeing?  _

It eats at her until, maddened by a lack of sleep and her own inner torment, she dresses and makes for the black cells.

“Your Grace,” Ser Balon Swann says as he trots after her, but she pays him no mind as she descends deeper into the belly of the castle. He eventually falls silent, but when the turnkey begins to unlock Cersei’s door, the knight raises his objections again. “Your Grace, please, you can’t go in there alone.”

“I won’t be alone.” She brushes the hilt of the rapier hidden beneath her cloak. 

“Your Grace, this woman has already tried to kill you once--”

“And if she tries again, I’ll put Ser Aron’s lessons to good use. Stand aside, ser.”

He hesitates, but a direct order is a direct order, so he steps aside and lets her pass into the cell.

It’s dark save for a burning torch. Cersei’s green eyes glitter in the torchlight as she moves closer, wary. She’s wearing a filthy nightgown, a worn green blanket wrapped around her arms.

Cassie waits until the door is closed to speak. 

“Why did you do it? Really?”

Cersei tilts her head, golden curls glistening. “Do what?”

“You  _ know _ what.”

Cersei considers her for a long moment. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now. In the morning, Ser Gregor will slay your champion, and I’ll walk free.” She sits on her bed, a bench in the corner with a mattress stuffed with hay. “A long time ago, when I was about your age, I went to a woodswitch on my father’s land. Maggy the Frog, we all called her. I gave her a drop of my blood, and in return, she let me ask three questions.” She closes her eyes, remembering. “I asked her when I would wed the prince. My father was trying to convince Aerys to wed me to Rhaegar, you see. And she said, ‘Never. You will wed the king.’ I said, ‘But I will be queen?’ And she said, ‘Aye, queen shall you be...until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear.’ Finally, I asked, ‘Will the king and I have children?’ And she said, ‘Oh, aye. Six-and-ten for him, and three for you. Gold shall be their crowns, and gold their shrouds, and when your tears have drowned you, the  _ valonqar _ shall wrap his hands about your pale white throat and choke the life from you.’” She opens her eyes, smiling. “So you see, little Cass, it was prophesied long before you were born. I did not wed Rhaegar, but I was to wed the king and become the queen. Six-and-ten children for Robert, your wenching father, and three for me. There’s still one child left for me to bear.” Her smile fades. “I’ve always said you were a beauty, little Cass. Are you the other queen, younger and more beautiful, to cast me down and take all that I hold dear?”

Cassie stumbles back, her hand gripping the hilt of Kindness. “You’re mad.”

“Mad? You have no idea. Run on back to bed, little Cass, and see if your traitor mother will protect you when I come into my crown.”

“I’m done with this woman,” Cassie declares, loud enough for the turnkey to hear. The door swings open on rusted hinges, and she steps out, hiding her trembling hands beneath the sleeves of her dress. 

.

It’s mere hours later when Shireen helps her dress for the day ahead. Cassie chooses a dress of white and gold to match Ser Arys, and prays that the gods will truly be in their favor.

The outer ward has been closed off for the trial, and what feels like the entire court lines the walkways. Cassie takes her place on the dais, Uncle Stannis and Uncle Renly seated with her. 

Ser Arys is swinging his sword at one end of the ward, practicing, and Cassie sends Shireen to give him her favor for luck. On the other side of the ward, the Lannisters are clumped around Ser Gregor, who does not bother with practicing. They look like children standing next to him, craning their necks to look up at the Mountain. He is aptly named, and Cassie prays that even a mountain as great as Ser Gregor will topple before Ser Arys.

When both warriors are ready, they advance slowly, shields up and swords at the ready. Cassie grips the arms of her chair, waiting.

“Ser Arys is a good warrior, Your Grace,” Ser Barristan assures her. “He is lithe, which ofttimes means more than brute strength.”

Yet as Ser Arys thrusts his sword, ringing it soundly against the Mountain’s shield, Ser Barristan and Uncle Stannis make disappointed noises.

“Why is that bad?” she asks, for Ser Arys is unharmed.

“The man that makes the first blow is often the first to fall,” Uncle Stannis says unhappily.

She sinks back into her chair. “Oh.”

Ser Arys does this a few more times, ringing Ser Gregor’s shield before spinning away. It visibly irritates the bigger man, who lumbers after him but can’t quite follow Ser Arys’s quick movements. 

“He means to annoy him into making a rash move,” Ser Barristan explains to her. “Look, Ser Gregor cannot keep up with him. If he keeps turning, it will disorient him.”

That gives Cassie some heart, and she watches as Ser Gregor does indeed attempt to lunge at Ser Arys, who always dodges his blows. Twice their swords meet, but Ser Arys dances out of the way each time. The gold of Cassie’s favor glimmers from his arm, and it gives her hope.

_ Warrior, give him the strength to defeat the Mountain, and Stranger, spare me my champion. _

It is at that moment that Ser Gregor knocks the flat of his sword against Ser Arys, sending him reeling back a few steps. Cassie gasps, gripping the arms of her chair, but Ser Arys shakes it off, his own sword coming up to meet the Mountain’s. Steel sings against steel, and though Ser Arys is driven backwards, he still keeps his footing. He moves with a speed and agility that bespeak his years of training, and when he thrusts forward, Cassie forces herself not to clutch her face, aware that the entire court is watching. 

His sword pierces Ser Gregor’s side, in between where his breastplate buckles, and the growl emitted by the other man is enough to make her sag in relief. But then, Ser Gregor brings down his shield arm, knocking the sword from Ser Arys’s hand. The knight stoops low, avoiding the swing of Ser Gregor’s sword, and snatches up the sword before rolling away. 

It’s the wrong thing to do. Already on the ground, he can only use his shield to block Ser Gregor’s unrelenting blows, unable to get back on his feet. When the Mountain tosses his sword aside, Cassie watches in horror as he straddles Ser Arys’s body, bringing up his shield with both hands.

_ “No!” _ Cassie screams, but Ser Gregor brings down the shield hard, bashing over and over until Ser Arys’s burnished bronze head is a red and bloody mess. Beside her, Uncle Renly turns away, retching horribly as the Mountain climbs to his feet, spattered in the other man’s blood.

Cersei Lannister looks up at Cassie and smiles. 


	51. BENJEN I

The morning is bleak and grey and quiet. Down below, Castle Black is just beginning to stir, the men making ready for a long day ahead of them. 

_ Not so long as they were. _ The days have been growing a little shorter and the nights a little longer. Soon it will be dark at almost all hours of the day. There will be no rangings, unless it’s for food, and they’ll lose many a brother to the chill.  _ Winter is Coming...and so is the second Long Night. _

He’d been hoping for the Targaryen army to come quickly, but there’s been no word on that front. Instead, Lyanna’s treason has been found out, and last he heard, she and Ned were coming back to Winterfell. Maester Aemon had a raven from King’s Landing not long ago proclaiming that Robert is dead, and in his place rules his little daughter, Cassana. The whole kingdom’s falling apart, and they’ll need to sew themselves back together on the double if they’re to defeat the Army of the Dead.

At least they have the Wall. Whatever happens, the Wall has stood for eight thousand years, and gods be good, will stand for eight thousand more. Even if Jon and Daenerys do not return, even if the the Seven Kingdoms are as divided as ever, the Wall will keep back the Others.

_ Until they find a way over it. _

He tries not to think about that. If they’ve kept the wildlings at bay for this long, surely they can keep out the Others. 

Yet even so, they’ve had reports of wildlings raiding the Gift. It happens every once in a while, but the frequency and brutality of these attacks leaves him wondering. He knows wildlings sometimes row through the Bay of Seals, but the shores are well-protected, and they usually don’t get far without running into Umber or Karstark men. 

_ Have they found a way over the Wall? _

“Brother Benjen!”

He stifles a sigh. It’s one of the newer brothers of the Night’s Watch, a tow-headed lad from King’s Landing named Lommy Greenhands. At his side, as always, is the plump steward named Hot Pie. He works in the kitchens with Hobb, and they are all grateful for it; he’s a far better cook than the three-fingered man, and the spirits of the Night’s Watch have improved markedly since Hot Pie came into their service. The fact that he’s here must mean breakfast has already been served to the rest of Castle Black. 

“Yes, Brother Lommy?”

“Maester Aemon had a raven; he wanted me to give it to you,” Lommy says, handing over a scroll. 

Benjen unfurls the scroll, reads it...and stares for a long moment. 

“What is it?” Lommy asks. 

Benjen pinches the bridge of his nose. “They’re sending us Jaime fuckin’ Lannister.”

“Jaime Lannister?” Hot Pie asks, excited. “The Kingslayer?”

“The very same.” Benjen scans the contents of the maester’s scroll. It’s a newer maester, one whose hand he does not recognize; he wonders if Pycelle has croaked at last. 

_ Ser Jaime has confessed to incest, a deep stain for one who wears the white of the Kingsguard. Queen Cassana feels that the black of the Night’s Watch would perhaps suit him better. _

Incest. Well, that’s not one he’s heard before. Even the rapers stayed well clear of their sisters, as far as he’s aware. But to be a knight of the Kingsguard and to have lain with your own sister…

Gods, what is  _ happening _ in King’s Landing?

“Did he do it again?” Lommy asks.

“Do what again?” 

“Slay a king.”

“No.” Benjen rolls up the scroll. “No, nothing like that.” He starts to move away, but Lommy and Hot Pie trail after him.

“Maester Aemon also sent us to tell you that Queen Lyanna is here.”

Benjen whirls around. “Lyanna?”

“Yes, she’s in the lord commander’s tower,” Lommy reports. 

“Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” Benjen snaps, making for the cage. He closes the doors before the two boys can get in with him. Let them take the stairs, and waste their time as they’d wasted his. Who can care about Jaime Lannister when his  _ sister _ waits below?

Sure enough, he finds her dining on Hobb and Hot Pie’s meager offerings in Mormont’s tower, both of them laughing heartily over some jest or other. With her are two ladies--one of them the red woman, and the other, her lady-in-waiting, Dacey Mormont--and Greatjon Umber. Lyanna looks up with a smile when her brother enters, getting out of her seat to embrace him.

“It’s good to see you, little brother,” she says warmly, hugging him tight.

“Lya, what are you doing here?” 

“Is that any way to greet your sister and queen?” She pulls back, her smile fading. “A lot’s happened since I last saw you.”

“So I’ve heard.” 

She gestures for him to take an empty seat. “Join us, brother.”

He does, accepting a horn of ale from Mormont’s steward and fried kippers on toast. 

_ “Corn!” _ Mormont’s insufferable raven caws, and he repeats the cry until Mormont shoves a kernel at the beast. 

“Well? What brings you here, sister mine?” Benjen asks. “Not a leisure visit, I’ll wager.”

“Not a leisure visit,” she agrees. “Now that I’ve...now that I am no longer queen,” she says tactfully, “I’ve returned north with Ned and asked for the help of the North in keeping the southerners at bay and preparing to march beside Jon and Daenerys when the time comes. But,” her eyes flicker to the Greatjon, who is too engrossed in his eggs to notice her furtive look, “some of them are unwilling to go to war until they know that this talk of the Others isn’t just talk.”

He doesn’t like where this is going. “Alright.”

She takes a deep breath. “So, they suggested I bring back...proof.”

“Proof,” he repeats flatly. “As in...what, one of the wights?”

“Well...yes.”

“Which of the lords wanted proof?” Mormont wants to know.

“Roose Bolton, wouldn’t you know,” Greatjon Umber booms.

Benjen and Mormont groan at the same time.

“I always hated that man,” Mormont confides. “With his pink coat and his leeches...despicable man. Of course  _ he _ wanted proof.”

“Bloody flayed man!” Greatjon rumbles. “Don’t trust him as far as I can throw him.”

“Trust him or not, I can’t very well go back now,” Lyanna says, polite but firm. “Not without a...what did you call them, Benjen? Wights?”

“Wights. Those are the dead men that come walking,” Mormont agrees. “We had one at Castle Black try to kill me as I slept. We all thought he was dead...but the dead don’t die here anymore.”

Lyanna shivers.

“So, what, you want one of us to go beyond the Wall and catch a wight for you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ben; I’ll be going, too.”

Benjen drops his fork. “Absolutely not.”

“What sort of queen am I if I’m not willing to get my hands dirty once in a while?” she counters.

“A living one! Besides, queens don’t get their hands dirty.”

“Well, perhaps they should start.”

“You are  _ not _ going beyond the Wall,” he says in what he hopes is a tone of finality.

“Who’s going to stop me?” she challenges. 

“Not even the Greatjon could stop her,” Dacey Mormont says cheerfully. 

“It’s true,” the bigger man agrees. “Our queen has a will of iron! But don’t you worry, young Benjen, I’ve brought twenty of my men with me and Lord Stark sent twenty of his own men with the queen, so she’ll be well-protected.”

“And me,” Dacey Mormont objects.

“And you,” Greatjon agrees. “To hear your mother tell it, every Bear Islander is worth ten mainlanders!”

“My mother tells it true, doesn’t she, Uncle Jeor?”

“On this subject, yes,” Mormont agrees with a begrudging smile. 

Benjen huffs. “Well, if you’re going, then I’m going with you. I’m First Ranger; no man on the Wall knows the lands beyond better than I do.” A thought occurs to him. “If,” he adds quickly, glancing at Mormont, “the lord commander can spare me.”

Mormont eyes the siblings with an amused glint but nods his head. “Of course. It is important to the Night’s Watch that the North understand the seriousness of the situation here. Take some of our sworn brothers with you, Benjen. The more guides our queen has, the better.”

Benjen knows they can’t spare many men, but he’ll see what men are willing and able. 

“There is the matter of the wildlings, Lord Commander.”

“Hmm, yes,” Mormont agrees with a frown. 

“The wildlings?” Lyanna asks.

“‘Tis no great matter, Your Grace, only they’ve been...marshaling.”

“Do wildlings marshal?” she asks with interest.

“They haven’t been known to,” Mormont admits. “They follow Mance Rayder, this...King-Beyond-the-Wall.”

“I thought wildlings didn’t have kings.”

“They’ve been doing lots of peculiar things lately,” Benjen says. “But if I can rustle up even ten lads here, that’s fifty men to accompany us beyond the Wall. The wildlings travel in small groups, and even the bigger ones wouldn’t tangle with fifty men. If they found out our purpose, they’d tangle with us even less.”

“I can spare ten men,” Mormont says. “Maybe twenty, but you’re right; fifty men will be enough to hold off the wildlings.”

_ But will it be enough to hold off the Others? _ He supposes it doesn’t matter; Lyanna doesn’t  _ want _ to hold off the others, she wants to catch one. He still thinks she’s a fool for wanting to come, but when has his sister ever taken no for an answer? 

“I’ll ask around, see who wants to join us.”

She takes his hand in hers, her eyes sincere. “Thank you, Benjen.”

He bows his head, excusing himself. He won’t find many men eager to go beyond the Wall, but surely  _ someone _ will want to brag that they took the wolf queen to capture a wight.

.

Edd Tollett, Pyp, Grenn, Toad, Jarmen Buckwell, Mallador Locke, and Ulmer all agree to go with Benjen beyond the Wall. It’s seven men, even less than he’d hoped for, but he, Greatjon, and Dacey Mormont will just have to make up the difference. There will still be fifty fighters to defend Lyanna--and the red woman she insists on bringing with her.

“Melisandre is my stalwart companion,” she’d argued when he’d tried to suggest she leave the priestess behind. “Besides, we’ll have fifty men, what’s the harm in bringing one priestess?”

He supposes there isn’t, so he relents. Besides, it’s not as if forbidding her is going to do him much good. 

When preparations have been made and the stewards help them pack and provision, Benjen takes his sister to meet with wise old Maester Aemon. Only a handful of men at Castle Black know his true name, and Benjen is one of them. 

Samwell Tarly greets them with many bows and mumbled words of courtesy before fleeing to fetch the old maester.

“The son and heir of Randyll Tarly of Horn Hill,” Benjen tells his sister. “Or was, until he came here.”

“ _ Him _ ?” she asks in disbelief. “That soft, sweet boy?”

Sam’s presence here is a mystery to all, including Benjen. Not only is he soft and sweet, but he’s afraid of everything and a terrible fighter. Benjen had gone as easy as he could on him, but he’s best suited here, reading to Maester Aemon and helping him tend the rookery. 

A moment later, Sam comes out leading the wizened old maester. He sits in his chair, smiling up at nothing.

“My queen,” he says in his frail voice. “Forgive me for keeping you waiting.”

“There is nothing to forgive, maester.” She comes forward, taking his hands in hers as she kneels on the carpet. Fierce and iron-willed as his sister can be, she is soft and gentle now. “My brother has told me so much about you, it is only an honor to be in the same room as you.”

“You have learned the art of flattery well, Your Grace,” he says with a smile that could almost be termed mischievous. “I would know; I grew up in King’s Landing.”

She laughs. “Flattery will get you everywhere, so they tell me.”

“Your Grace, if it is not too forward...may I touch your face? So that I may understand the shape of it?”

“Of course, Maester Aemon.” She sits patiently as he feels the curves and contours of her face, memorizing its shape. 

He nods approvingly. “As beautiful as they say.”

“Now who’s the flatterer?”

“It is not flattery if it’s the truth. A war was fought for that beauty.”

Lyanna’s smile slides off her face. “Yes.”

“Rhaegar wrote to me often, you know. In his youth. My great-great-nephew, if you can believe it. We had never met, but he took an interest in me, and I in him. Of course, it is hard not to take an interest, cooped away up here as I am.”

“Rhaegar told me about you,” Lyanna says softly. “He said you believed he was the prince that was promised.”

“So I did. The circumstances of his birth...I was sure of it. Then he wrote to me some years later, convinced his son Aegon was the prince that was promised. Well, they killed Aegon, and put an end to that. But now…”

“Now, we both know the truth,” she says softly. “That Daenerys Targaryen was reborn amidst salt and smoke, and she is the prince that was promised.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “Yes, I believe that. And not a moment too soon. I have lost my sight, Queen Lyanna, but even a blind man can feel the growing darkness. The Army of the Dead is gathering, marshaling, and waiting for the right time to strike. ‘Night gathers, and now my watch begins.’ Those are the Night’s Watch words. Well, my watch is near its end, but yours is just beginning, I feel.” He clasps her hands with frail strength. “Brother Benjen, take good care of your sister. I sense a power in her.”

“I’ll guard her with my life,” Benjen promises. 

Lyanna rises. “Thank you, Maester Aemon.”

“It is I who should be thanking you.” He smiles, his milky eyes staring at nothing. “There is a growing darkness, yes, but there is a light about you, Lyanna Stark, one I feel will carry us through the Long Night.”


	52. CATELYN IV

The Eyrie is a lovely prison, to be sure...but it is a prison nonetheless.

Catelyn may wander the castle at her leisure, may talk to whomever she likes, eat whatever she pleases, and occupy her time in most any way she chooses, but she knows that is where her freedom ends. Even if she were to try and escape, she’d never make it down to the waycastles; the bucket is controlled by Lysa’s men, and she would never be able to flee down the handholds fast enough. 

_ Gods be good, my own sister is my gaoler. _

It could be worse, she knows. She could be held in the sky cells, big open cells in the dungeon where an entire wall is just the open sky...because down below is a deadly drop no man could ever hope to survive. 

It has not yet come to that, gods be good. Lysa still maintains an air of hospitality, as if this were no more than a friendly visit between sisters. She gossips as if she were a maid of fifteen again, flirting with the Vale lords who come to dine with them or pay their respects in the throne room.

And there are always Vale lords visiting, hanging around in the hopes of marrying the newly-widowed Lysa. Until Robin comes of age, she rules as Regent, but if she has a husband…

“Do you truly wish to marry again so soon?” Catelyn asks her sister one night after seeing off another suitor. In the courtyard below, Rickon and Uncle Brynden wrestle with Shaggydog, Robin lingering at a distance to watch. He’s a frightened little child, but he seems to like Rickon well enough. With time, perhaps, he will cling less to his mother’s skirts--and to her breast. 

“Gods, no,” Lysa scoffs. “But they need to think I will. The lords of the Vale are so  _ kind _ and  _ solicitous _ when they think they have a chance of marrying me. They’d never be half so accommodating if they thought I was permanently mired in widowhood.” 

They are quiet for a long moment before Catelyn clears her throat. “Lysa...have you given anymore thought to whether you’ll lend the North your support?”

Lysa’s calm expression shatters. “Why should I defend your traitorous husband and his sister? Even if they didn’t kill Jon, they’ve been conspiring against the king for  _ years _ .”

“Lysa, I’ve been trying to tell you, this war that’s coming upon us--”

“Oh, pooh on the war!” she cries. “No war will reach us here. The Eyrie is the safest place for us.”

“Not if Daenerys brings her dragons across the Narrow Sea and wonders why you chose not to acknowledge her as queen. You remember the last time the Vale refused to bend the knee to the Targaryens?”

Lysa’s eyes are cold. “Is that a threat, sister?”

“Is it a threat, to remember our lessons? You are safe up here for now, but it will not always be that way. Better to be on the winning side.”

“You forget yourself.” Lysa turns back to the window, watching the boys. “You should get some rest, sister. You are looking haggard.”

Catelyn sees the command for what it is. “Perhaps you are right,” she says with cold courtesy. “Good night, Lysa.”

But Lysa does not so much as look up as Catelyn heads for her bedchamber. 

The maid has lit a fire, but Catelyn dismisses her before she undresses for the evening. She would prefer to undress alone in this prison without bars. The maid is quiet and kind, but Catelyn no more trusts her than any servant in Lysa’s household. Who knows what they report to Lysa, what they tell her about Catelyn and Rickon and even Uncle Brynden?

_ I should have gone back to Winterfell with Ned and the girls, for all the good it’s done me.  _

.

She’s been in the Vale for near a month when Ser Vardis Egen comes to them in Lysa’s solar. Catelyn likes Ser Vardis as much as she can like anyone here; he, at least, tried to warn her of Lysa’s madness, and has been sympathetic to her plight. If it came to it, she feels Ser Vardis might help her escape. 

“Lady Arryn,” he greets with a courteous bow. “Lady Stark. A lord from the North has announced himself at the Gates of the Moon, a Roose Bolton.”

“Roose Bolton?” Catelyn repeats, surprised and pleased. Roose Bolton is one of Ned’s bannermen, a powerful lord of the North. Did Ned send him? Is he her rescuer?

“You know this man?” Lysa asks in a would-be nonchalant voice, but Catelyn can hear her suspicion. 

“Not well. House Bolton rules from the Dreadfort, some distance from Winterfell, but he has called upon my husband before. Did he say why he’s here?”

“He said he had concerns he wished to share with Lady Stark, and he also wished to pay his respects to Lady Arryn.”

It’s just vague enough that Lysa has no reason to deny him, even though it’s clear she desperately wants to. 

“If you don’t want to receive him here, Lysa, perhaps I could meet him at one of the waycastles, or perhaps even the Gates of the Moon?” Catelyn suggests innocently. “So as not to trouble you.”

Lysa’s mouth sets in a hard line. “I would hate for you to travel  _ all the way  _ down there,” she says. “Have him come up, Ser Vardis.”

He bows and exits the room, leaving Catelyn with a sense of relief. 

_ Not even my sister’s sudden cruelty can keep him away.  _

She’s no fool; she knows that, as much as Lysa claims to want to avoid war, she will use Catelyn for a bargaining chip if it suits her. Why else would she keep her sister here? Ned is a traitor to the crown, and he would pay a steep price for Catelyn’s safe release. Lysa could use this to endear herself to the crown. If she was feeling truly cruel, she could even use Catelyn to get a ransom from Edmure, who Catelyn knows would also pay a steep price. He would put family above duty and honor as their words suggest and let the Riverlands suffer for it. 

.

It takes half a day for Lord Bolton to ascend. Catelyn decides to spare him the indignity of watching his final ascent and wait inside the castle. She would greet him in the front hall, if she could, but Lysa does not trust her to exchange private words with her husband’s bannerman; instead, she has Catelyn wait inside the throne room with her. 

Lord Bolton looks unruffled as he enters, bowing low as courtesy dictates. 

“Lady Arryn, Lady Stark, thank you for receiving me.”

“It is a pleasure to see you again, Lord Bolton,” Catelyn says politely. “Pray, what brings you to the Eyrie?”

He clasps his hands before him. “In truth, my lady, I had some cause for concern. Your husband and his sister are rallying the Northmen at Winterfell and asking us to fight a war against the crown...and, they say, the Others beyond the Wall.”

Catelyn hesitates. “And this...was your cause for concern?”

He raises his eyebrows. “Does it not concern you, Lady Stark?”

“War always concerns me.”

“Yet I find you here, in the Eyrie.”

“A familial visit,” Lysa says. “No more.”

“Of course,” he says flatly. “Forgive me. I had thought...perhaps your loyalties differed from your husband’s.”

“My loyalties will always lie with my husband,” Catelyn says, stern and proud. 

His face shows no emotion. “I see. And Lady Arryn’s?”

Lysa stiffens in her weirwood chair. “My loyalties lie with the crown, of course.”

“Of course,” he echoes. “How interesting, then, that you and your sister seem to live in such...amity.”

Lysa bristles at that. “Do you accuse me of treachery, Lord Bolton?”

“Not in the least.” He pauses. “Forgive me, my lady. It has been a long journey and I find myself tired from the road.”

“Of course. We will have a room prepared for you. You must be our guest,” Lysa says.

_ Is he to be her prisoner too? _ Catelyn wonders. 

He bows. “Thank you, Lady Arryn. The hospitality of the Eyrie has not been exaggerated.”

Lysa, to Catelyn’s surprise and horror, giggles. 

As soon as Roose Bolton is gone, Lysa turns to her sister. “This Lord Bolton...what do you make of him?”

“I mislike his attitude towards Ned.”

Lysa waves her objection aside. “Yes, yes, I mean, what do you make of his  _ character _ ?”

Catelyn purses her lips. She can see where this is going. Lysa  _ likes _ the man, the gods know why. “I think...he is a difficult man to read. He always has been.”

“Mysterious,” Lysa muses. “And he is...unmarried?”

“Widowed.”

“Children?”

Catelyn swallows. “His only trueborn son died. He has a bastard of no account.”

Lysa considers this. “Interesting. Very interesting.” She rises suddenly. “I’m going to dress for dinner.”

“It’s still light out,” Catelyn says in surprise.

But Lysa is already gliding to her chamber.

.

Lord Bolton joins them for dinner, sitting in the seat where Lysa puts all of her suitors...only this time, her flirting seems genuine. Catelyn watches in horror as Lysa throws back her head in laughter and touches Lord Bolton’s arm. He doesn’t seem to mind it...but why would he? Even if he mislikes Lysa’s character, he must surely know what could be gained from having the Vale’s Regent attracted to him. 

_ Perhaps he’s just like her other suitors, and Lysa is too blind to see it. Perhaps he did not come to save me after all, _ Catelyn thinks bitterly.

She is debating whether or not it would be rude to feign a headache and retire early when Rickon and Robin enter, Shaggydog in tow as always. 

“My love!” Lysa cries. “What brings you here so late? You should be abed!”

“Rickon had a dream,” Robin says, clutching his doll.

“A dream?” Lysa’s eyes narrow. It’s clear to all that she mislikes Rickon, and she  _ especially _ mislikes Shaggydog, but not even the staunchest of her guards have the courage to get in Shaggydog’s way and she knows it. For that, Catelyn is grateful. 

“What was your dream?” Catelyn asks, grateful for the distraction from Lysa’s flirting.

Rickon shifts uneasily. “I dreamt that Robin and Aunt Lysa flew.”

“Flew?” She can’t understand the discomfort in that, but Robin’s lip begins to tremble.

“I don’t  _ want _ to fly!” he exclaims. “Mother, don’t make me!”

“Hush now!” Lysa goes to her son, wrapping him in an embrace. “No one’s going to make you fly.”

Catelyn looks at Rickon, nonplussed. “What is this flying business?”

Uncle Brynden clears his throat. “He means the Moon Door.”

“The Moon Door?”

“It’s in the throne room,” Rickon explains. “It opens up to a big open chasm, and bad men are made to fly.”

_ A door from which men are executed. _ She understands now. “And you dreamt Robin and Aunt Lysa were dropped down it?”

Robin begins to sob. “Don’t make me fly, don’t make me fly!”

“No one’s going to make you fly!” Lysa insists. “It was only a dream, nothing more.” She lifts the boy in her arms. “Pray excuse me, Lord Bolton, I must put this one to bed.”

“Of course,” he says, rising politely. 

Lysa casts Catelyn a disdainful look. “Perhaps your son should sleep in your room tonight...with his wolf.”

Catelyn bows her head. “Very well.” She rises. “Excuse me also, Lord Bolton. Come along, Rickon.” She takes her son’s hand, leading him to her room. She pities Uncle Brynden, having to entertain Roose Bolton on his own, but her uncle’s never met a man he hasn’t managed to intimidate. 

“Am I in trouble?” Rickon asks. 

“Of course not.”

“Aunt Lysa seems angry.”

“She’s always angry.” She’s quiet for a moment, listening to the sounds of their footsteps. “Rickon, why was Robin so upset about your dream?”

He hesitates.

“Rickon? What aren’t you telling me?”

“Well...sometimes...the things in my dreams happen for true.”

She stops short at that. “For true? You mean you have...visions?”

“They’re like dreams,” he says, looking at his feet. “But a little different.”

She considers him. “What kinds of dreams have you had? What came true?”

He hesitates again.

“I won’t be angry, Rickon, I only want to know.”

“I dreamt the king died. And that Jon was a dragon. And I dreamt that a Northerner would come to the Eyrie, and then Lord Bolton came.”

Catelyn can hardly believe what she’s hearing. Could this be some coincidence? Or does her son truly have a gift? “And tonight, you dreamt that Aunt Lysa and Robin...flew? Out of the Moon Door?”

He nods, wide-eyed.

She kneels down to look at them. “How did they fly, Rickon? Who sent them?”

“No one... _ sent them _ ,” he says, but he hesitates.

“How did they fly?”

“Someone pushed them.”

“ _ Who _ ?”

Rickon lowers his voice to a whisper. “A flayed man.”

A chill runs down her spine. “Lord Bolton?” she whispers back.

He cups his hands over her ear. “His son.”

  
  



	53. LYANNA XIX

They set out at first light--though  _ light _ is a generous term for it. The sky fades from a dull black to a dull blue to a dull grey, the sun hidden somewhere beneath a blanket of cloud. Lyanna lets Benjen and his brothers of the Night’s Watch lead the way; they know this land like the backs of their hands.

For five days, they ride through snowy fields and forests. It’s strange--these lands have been walled off for eight thousand years, yet they look just like the North. The trees are the same, the landscape more or less the same (more mountains here, but even so), the howling of distant wolves the same. 

_ The First Men lived here just as they did in the North. There were no wildlings eight thousand years ago, no Wall to divide men who share the same blood. Why did we keep them out? And why don’t we let them through? The Wall was meant to protect us from the Others, not other men.  _

On the fifth day, as they draw buckets from the icy river called the Milkwater, two of Benjen’s scouts return with somber faces.

“Wildlings,” they report. “A whole army of them.”

“A whole army?” Benjen repeats in disbelief. “How many?”

“Thirty thousand at least, maybe more.”

“Thirty  _ thousand _ ? Wildlings never travel together, let alone thirty  _ thousand _ of them.”

“Begging your pardon, my lord, but these ones do.”

Benjen glances at his sister and then makes up his mind. “Ten of you with me; the rest stay here with the queen. I want to see these wildlings for myself.”

“I want to see,” Lyanna insists. She’s never seen wildlings before, not really. 

But Benjen, as predicted, shakes his head. “No. If there are truly that many of them, you’re safer here.”

She opens her mouth to protest, but the Greatjon shakes his head. “All due respect, Your Grace, but your brother’s right. Fifty men is no match for thirty thousand.”

He has the right of it, and with great reluctance, Lyanna sits back. Benjen and his ten men set off, leaving Lyanna with the other forty. Melisandre sits before the fire, watching the flames, and Dacey pulls out a knife to finish fletching the arrows she’s been working on. 

It happens so suddenly that they barely have time to react.

Two of the brothers of the Night’s Watch go down, then four, then six, until there is a full-out skirmish. Dacey and the Greatjon both push Lyanna and Melisandre to the ground, shielding their bodies as wildlings and brothers of the Night’s Watch clash against one another. Lyanna, who has never been part of a real battle (indeed, has never seen combat outside of a tourney melee), can feel her heart pounding against her chest. Should she help? Should she stay and wait?

“Don’t!” one of the men, a brother she thinks is called Grenn, pleads with the wildlings. “We’re not here for you, we’re here for the Others!”

The wildling aiming an axe at his throat stops, frowning. The others stop, too, curious.

“Is this some trick?” one of them asks in an accent even thicker than the Greatjon’s. 

“No trick,” a man called Pyp insists. “We’ve come here to capture a wight and take it down south, to show the lords of Westeros, that’s all.”

“That’s  _ all _ ?” a woman with bones twined in her hair repeats. “Do you take us for fools, crow?”

“Only if you kill us,” Pyp snaps. “We don’t want anything to do with you. Let us go north.”

“North! You’re a fool, crow.” She aims her knife, but Lyanna worms out from beneath Greatjon. 

“Don’t!” she orders, getting to her feet. Greatjon and Dacey attempt to tug her back down, but she stands firm.

The wildling woman considers her. “There are no women in the Night’s Watch.”

“There aren’t,” Lyanna agrees. “I’m not in the Night’s Watch.”

“Who are you, then? You’re not one of us.”

“Don’t,” Dacey whispers, but Lyanna ignores her.

“My name is Lyanna Stark.”

“Stark?” another woman repeats, eyes wide. “Benjen Stark’s own blood!”

“You know my brother?”

“Aye, we know that crow,” one of the men spits. 

“Bet the lords of Westeros would pay a pretty penny to see her safe return.”

“Bet Benjen  _ Stark _ would pay with his own blood to see her freed.”

“Let these men live and I’ll go with you,” Lyanna offers. 

“You don’t have a choice,” one of the men says, but he and the others put down their weapons. Lyanna gamely presents her wrists for binding, encouraging the others in her party to do the same. She can sense their unhappiness, but if what Benjen’s scouts said is true, then this was inevitable; it’s either surrender now and live or fight and die. 

The wildlings walk them the long distance to their camp, crossing through forest before they reach a sea of tents and temporary huts. There are no banners and sigils here, no glinting armor and leather; the people in this camp wear a motley collection of furs, and the most distinguishing feature of any of them are intricate scars carved onto their faces. They all look up at the newcomers, staring with hard eyes.

“More crows?” a man covered in bones asks, falling into step with their captors.

“Crows, and the sister of Benjen Stark.”

The man in bones gives Lyanna a curious look. “He’s here too, you know.”

“Benjen?” she blurts.

“Aye. Caught him and ten men spying on us. He’s with Mance now.”

The leader of Lyanna’s captors and the man in bones share a look.

“Right. Tell Mance I’m bringing his sister and others.”

The man in bones goes ahead of them. By the time they reach a great tent, the man in bones opens the flap and lets them through.

Benjen is sitting inside, his wrists and ankles bound, a streak of blood running from his forehead, but he looks otherwise unharmed. There are others in the tent--several men and two women, one of whom is heavily pregnant, and they all look up at the arrival of the newcomers.

“Lya,” Benjen says in a strained voice. “I’m sorry…”

“It’s alright. I’ve never been kidnapped by wildlings before.” She kneels beside her brother, touching his forehead. “Are you hurt?”

“Just a scrape.”

“Lyanna Stark,” one of the wildling men says. “Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

She looks up at him, surprised. “You know me?”

“I know of you.” He sits in a crudely carved chair, resting his arms on his thighs. “Before I was the King-Beyond-the-Wall, I was a brother of the Night’s Watch.”

“You’re Mance Rayder?” 

“I am.”

“Then you are just the man I was hoping to meet.” She gets to her feet, standing tall and proud. “You and your people are trying to get past the Wall, aren’t you? To get away from the Others?”

_ That _ surprises him. “What led you to ask this?”

“A long story, one that I would be happy to share over a horn of ale once we have made peace.”

“You want to make peace?” one of the men sneers, but Mance Rayder waves a hand to silence him.

“Let the southern queen speak.”

She bows her head. “Thank you. I am here because I’m trying to catch...a wight, I believe the Night’s Watch call them. One of these dead men that aren’t really dead. I know what’s coming, and I want to stop them, but the Northern lords will not lend their armies and their weapons until they have proof that the wights are real.”

Mance Rayder considers her. “An unusual queen, to not only believe in a threat she has not yet seen, but to actively seek out that which she means to destroy.”

“As I said, King-Beyond-the-Wall, it’s a long story I will share with you later.” She glances at the others in the room, who are all looking at her with wary eyes. “Perhaps we can come to some sort of arrangement.”

“What arrangement is that?” he asks, amused.

“We do not make deals with crows.”

“I’m not a crow,” she reminds the wildling. “But I am a woman of my word.” She turns back to Mance. “You want to protect your people, to get them on the other side of the Wall where they’ll be safe. I want that too. I know our people have a history of discord, and for that I’m sorry. Let me make this right by negotiating with the Northern lords to grant you and your people safe passage through the Wall.”

“Why would you do this?” the pregnant woman demands. “Your people have never been kind to ours.”

“I know. And I know you have no reason to trust me. I want to do this because I know what’s coming, and no man, woman, or child should have to face it.” She looks at Mance Rayder again. “Hold me here as hostage and send my brother Benjen back to Castle Black. Let him write to our brother, Lord Eddard. He will grant your people safe passage and residence in the North.”

_ Sorry Ned. _

Mance Rayder considers her. “And if he will not?”

“Then you may do as you like with me.”

“Lya,” Benjen says in a warning tone.

But Mance Rayder looks intrigued, and after a long moment of rubbing his chin, he nods his head in agreement. “I like this plan. Brothers,” he says, addressing the other men in the tent. “See to it that Benjen Stark and his murder of crows make it safely back to Castle Black to deliver our terms: that in exchange for the safe return of Lyanna Stark, the Night’s Watch will grant us safe passage through the Wall and the Northern lords will grant us land to live on.”

“How can we trust the crows?” one of the men asks. 

Mance Rayder looks at Lyanna. “I only have crude paper, but if I ask you to write down your terms, will you?”

“Of course.”

So, using a feather sharpened by Mance’s blade and dipped in blood drawn from her own palm (a token of good faith, and one that she hopes impresses the earnestness of her actions to the wildlings), she scratches out her terms on thick, uneven cow hide. Blowing the blood dry, she hands it to Mance Rayder, who reads it with approval, rolls the hide, and hands it to Benjen. 

“I don’t like this,” Benjen murmurs, but Lyanna shakes her head. 

“I’ll be alright. Just make haste, little brother.”

He hugs her fiercely before his wildling escort leads him and the other brothers of the Night’s Watch away.

“With all due respect, Your Grace,” Greatjon rumbles, “you’re either very brave or very stupid.”

“Perhaps both,” she says, watching her brother leave.  _ Don’t fail me, my brothers. You haven’t yet. _


	54. SANSA V

It’s cold and dark and quiet.

Every step is agony, her hips and legs trembling with the effort. Blood trickles down her thigh, but she ignores it. Her ears are pricked, her heart pounding. 

The babe stirs in her arms, making a small sound, and she freezes in fear. 

_ Hush, _ she quietly tells the babe,  _ don’t make a sound, not yet, please. _

The babe’s eyes are still closed, and after a moment, it settles against her breast again, deep asleep. She sags her shoulders in relief and continues her slow and trudging walk. 

The castle is a shell of its former self. Tapestries are ripped, hanging by threads, and the shields and spears that lined the corridors have been splintered into nothing. Snow has drifted inside, and wind howls past the open windows and doors. Her fear keeps her numb from the temperature, for even though she’s wearing little more than a nightgown and a robe, her heart is pounding so hard she’s sweating. 

_ Please, let us live, let us live. _

Lady growls, her hair standing on end, and before Sansa can backtrack, the horrible dead things are scuttling at her from all sides, their skeletal hands reaching for her and her baby. She opens her mouth to scream--

And finds herself jolted awake. 

She sits upright in bed, breathing hard, her nightgown soaked with sweat. Beside her, Lady licks her face. 

_ I’m alright, _ she realizes with a start.  _ No one’s after me, those dead things aren’t real, I didn’t have a baby, it was just a dream, just a terrible, horrible dream.  _

Yet even so, it had felt so  _ real _ . Dreams can be like that, she supposes, especially nightmares. She’s had one or two bad ones before, but this may well be the worst yet. 

_ I’m safe, _ she tells herself over and over again, wrapping her arms around Lady and letting the wolf’s soft fur and sweet smell soothe her. The wolf sits patiently, comfortingly, and when Sansa finally feels at ease, she sends for a bath. The serving maids bring her steaming buckets of water, filling her tub. She sends all but one away, disrobing and sliding beneath the hot water. She scrubs until she’s sure the sweat is gone, and once the maid has helped her wash her hair, she climbs out and dries off. 

Father and Arya are already at breakfast at the high table. The Northern lords and their men take up most of the seats in the great hall, some of them trading laughs, others looking unhappy to still be here. Father had said that any of them could go until his sister returned, and some of them had taken him up on the offer. Roose Bolton and Rickard Karstark were the first to go, tending to business of their own. A few of the others petered out, but most of the lords that were summoned remain. Northerners are more loyal than other men, Father always says. 

Sansa makes her way to the high table, smiling courteously at the other lords as she passes them by. Arya is feeding ham to Nymeria while Father pets Ghost with a morose face. He misses Mother. They’ve rarely been apart since the rebellion, and aside from that, this may be their longest separation yet. Weeks have gone by, and still no word from the Eyrie. Sansa had asked if this was cause for concern, and though Father hadn’t said it was, she can tell that he  _ is _ worried.

There’s been no word from Aunt Lyanna or Uncle Benjen, either, nor from Robb, who she hasn’t seen in months now. A raven from Riverrun is the only indication that Bran is alive and well. Her one consolation is that her family, separated as they are, have someone with them. Mother has Rickon, Shaggydog, Uncle Brynden, and Aunt Lysa, scarce comfort though that is, Aunt Lyanna and Uncle Benjen have each other, and Robb has Theon and Grey Wind. 

_ And somewhere across the Narrow Sea, Jon has Daenerys and her dragons. _

She thinks of her brother--for he will always be her brother, no matter what his birth--every now and then, wondering what he’s doing in Essos, and if he will be the same person she remembers when he returns. If he returns. The last they heard, Daenerys had conquered all of Slaver’s Bay with her bastard nephew at her side. That is all very well, but when will they conquer the Seven Kingdoms? They must have an army, but is it enough to take a Westerosi army, and do they even have the ships to bring them here? 

As soon as Arya has shoveled the last of her food in her mouth, she asks, “Can I practice now?”

Father sighs. “Very well.” 

She dashes off to meet with Alysane Mormont, who has taken over her sister Dacey’s role as Arya’s combat instructor. Arya adores the Mormont women, and they are scarcely less fond of her, happy to take another Northern girl under their wings. Arya has already taken to wearing breeches instead of dresses, and Father is too tired to care anymore. 

_ Mother would never let her, _ Sansa thinks. But it has to be said, the breeches do suit Arya more than any dress ever did. 

Vayon Poole approaches the high table. “Lord Stark, there’s a Dornishman without who wishes to speak with you.”

“Dornishman?” Father asks, perplexed. 

“Aye, my lord, he says his name is Dayne.”

“Dayne?” Sansa asks, filled with excitement. “Father, it’s Edric, it must be!”

Father looks both pained and bewildered. “Show him in, Vayon.”

Vayon bows and leaves. Sansa calls for Jeyne, who is sitting with Beth Cassel, and smoothes her hair, asking Jeyne to make sure she’s presentable. She’s half contemplating running upstairs and changing into a prettier gown when Vayon returns...bringing with him a man Sansa has never seen before. 

The man before her has silver hair, save one black streak that runs down one side. His eyes are purple, a trait common of the Daynes, but that is where his resemblance to Edric begins and ends. His leather tunic is purple to match his eyes, and his cloak is all silver fur and black leather straps. When he enters the room, the other men look up and watch in curiosity.

“Lord Stark,” he calls, getting to one knee before the high table. “I am Ser Gerold Dayne of High Hermitage.”

“Welcome, Ser Gerold Dayne,” Father says uneasily. “What brings you to Winterfell? High Hermitage is a long way from here.”

“In truth, I come in pursuit of my cousin, Lord Edric Dayne.”

Sansa sits up at that. Perhaps she will see Edric after all.

“Pursuit?” Father repeats. 

Ser Gerold Dayne rises. “Yes, my lord. He has not been heard from these last few months. The word in King’s Landing is that he left with Lord Beric Dondarrion and others after the death of King Robert. His friends there tell me he was courting your daughter, Lady Sansa. I had thought he’d had some notion of coming here to call on her.”

Sansa’s heart nearly bursts. On the one hand, Edric is missing. On the other, they think he came  _ here _ , to call on her. 

Father glances at her. “We have not seen him since we left King’s Landing.”

Ser Gerold’s face is unreadable. “A shame. My cousin Allyria rules Starfall in his absence; she has become greatly concerned as to his whereabouts. It isn’t like him to disappear for so long a time, or at all.”

Father looks troubled. “I’m afraid I’ve had no word of him, Ser Gerold. I pray he is safe and will soon find his way home. In the meantime, I offer you the hospitality of Winterfell, such as it is, in the hopes that your cousin may find his way here.”

“Thank you, my lord.” 

As soon as Ser Gerold has been offered bread and salt, he sits as Father’s guest at the high table and breaks his fast with them. 

“You said you are of High Hermitage,” Father comments. “Is that near Starfall?”

“Very; just north up the Torentine. My house was founded by a second son--as many small houses are.” He smiles ruefully. “My cousin was the Sword of the Morning--but men call me Darkstar.”

Father’s jaw twitches. “I see.”

“You knew my cousins, did you not, Lord Stark? Both of them?”

The smile Father was hiding fades. “I had that honor.”

Ser Gerold--or Darkstar, whatever his name is--smirks but says nothing about it. Instead, he swallows his ale and then turns to Sansa.

“You must be Lady Sansa.”

“I am,” she says, sitting up straighter. 

“I hear my cousin is enamored with you.”

She blushes. “It is kind of people to say so.” In truth, she doesn’t know how Edric feels about her. He’d said he wanted to marry her, and they’d exchanged a handful of letters...but suddenly his letters had stopped and she’d despaired of ever hearing from him again. If he’s missing, then that would explain it...but even so, what if he has the means to write to her and simply doesn’t want to? 

“I can see why,” Darkstar says with another smirk. “Of course, I suppose he wouldn’t be the first Dayne to become enamored with a Stark.”

Sansa knows he means Ashara Dayne--Edric had told her everything. She knows Ashara had loved her father...but had he loved her back? When Mother was betrothed to Uncle Brandon, when Father was only a second son and not the Lord of Winterfell, had he loved Ashara Dayne and hoped to marry her? Either way, she seemed to have loved him--or at least cared for him enough that his killing her brother had been a terrible betrayal.

“You must be Lady Arya,” Darkstar says to Jeyne, but she giggles and blushes.

“Oh, no, ser, I am Jeyne Poole; my father is Lord Stark’s steward.”

“Jeyne is my truest friend,” Sansa explains. “My sister Arya is off…with her dancing instructor.” She does not think Darkstar will want to hear about Arya’s combat training. 

“I see.” He takes another swallow of ale. “Oh, I had nearly forgot. I saw your brother Robb when I was in Sunspear.”

“You saw Robb?” Sansa asks, and even Father sits up at this. 

“How was he?” Father asks, leaning forward.

“Very well, my lord. He was in the company of Princess Arianne and the Sand Snakes--Oberyn Martell’s bastard daughters. The Greyjoys were also with them.”

“Greyjoys?” Father repeats. “More than Theon?”

Darkstar’s smile becomes strained. “His sister was with him. Asha.”

Sansa has always known that Theon had a sister, but she had never really thought much about her beyond that. What does it mean, she wonders? If Theon and his sister were in Sunspear, then Robb and Theon disappeared around the time Balon Greyjoy named himself king again…

“Such a shame about Balon Greyjoy,” Darkstar continues. “Naming himself king again and all that.”

“Yes,” Father says. “A shame.”

“Theon Greyjoy was your ward, wasn’t he?”

“He still is,” Father admits. “Wherever he is.”

“You do not know?” Darkstar asks with interest.

“We have seen neither Theon nor Robb since they left for Sunspear.”

“How strange. They left the day after I arrived--on Asha’s ship, I believe.”

Sansa has an uneasy feeling in her stomach. The last place Robb and Theon were seen was on Asha’s ship...right around the time Balon Greyjoy declared himself king.

_ Is Robb a hostage? Did the Greyjoys kill him? _ She cannot believe it--Theon, at the very least, loves Robb and would protect him--but what if the other Greyjoys had overruled him? What if they killed Robb to ensure Theon would not also die?

Father rises suddenly. “Pray excuse me, Ser Gerold. I have not slept well of late, and I fear I am poor conversation. My steward will have a room prepared for you.”

Darkstar also rises. “Of course, my lord. Thank you again for your hospitality.”

As soon as Father is gone, Darkstar leans in to Sansa and Jeyne. “You girls look like you know how to have fun. What is there to do in the North?”

Jeyne giggles again. “Not much, ser--not compared to Dorne, I’m sure. But we could show you Winterfell and the Winter Town, if it please you.”

“Spending time in your fair company would please me,” he says, winking at Jeyne.

Sansa hardly knows what to make of this man, but she supposes showing him around won’t hurt. After breakfast, she and Jeyne take him on a tour of the castle, and when this is done, they change into their riding clothes and take him to the Winter Town. There is little of interest to a visitor who’s familiar with Sunspear and King’s Landing, but in truth, she does not think he’s interested in the place or people. No, Darkstar is only interested in one person, and that person is Jeyne.

He flirts with her incessantly, and Jeyne flirts back with more charm and grace than Sansa knew she was capable of. 

_ It would be a good match, _ she realizes. Darkstar is Edric’s cousin, and if Edric ever reappears and marries her, Jeyne could marry Darkstar and then they would be family. They would both be Lady Dayne and live just up the river from one another. 

It hits her like a bolt of lightning.  _ Darkstar. Your fortunes lie where the stars fall and grow dark. Starfall and Darkstar. _

As soon as Darkstar excuses himself for a moment, Sansa tells Jeyne her realization. The other girl covers her mouth with her hands, eyes wide.

“You truly think he is what the prophecy referred to?!”

“How could he not be?!” Sansa squeals. “Star _ fall _ and Dark _ star _ . This is it, Jeyne, this is our fortune! Which means Edric is still alive, and I’m going to marry him, and you’re going to marry Darkstar, and we’re going to live happily ever after!”

They embrace each other, squealing and dancing. For the first time since coming home, Sansa feels truly happy.

.

Over the next two weeks, Sansa becomes more and more sure that Darkstar is the answer to the other half of the prophecy. An odd man, to be sure, with his silver hair and strange clothes, but his house is not only famous, but it is well-revered, and most importantly, he is good to Jeyne. He courts her with the gallantry of the knights of old, and when he gives Jeyne her first kiss, she runs to Sansa to share every sordid detail. 

“He’s strange,” Arya says bluntly when the other two girls are giggling about it. 

“Don’t be unkind,” Sansa remonstrates.

“I’m not being unkind. He’s  _ odd _ . It’s the truth. And Nymeria doesn’t like him.”

It’s true that Nymeria growls whenever she’s around the visitor, but Lady and Ghost don’t. Well, Lady never growls, because Sansa’s trained her not to, and Ghost never makes a sound anyway. But Nymeria is nearly as wild as Shaggydog, if a little better behaved, so of course she growls when she sees a strange man. 

_ Except she doesn’t growl at the other strange men here. _

“Nymeria is wild,” Sansa dismisses. “Almost as wild as you.”

Arya sticks out her tongue, and Sansa sticks hers out in response.

“He’s a bit...different,” Jeyne allows. “But he’s gallant and charming, and he’s been asking a lot about my family. I think he’s trying to figure out if I have a dowry,” she giggles. “That seems a good sign, doesn’t it?”

Arya snorts. “You could do better.”

Jeyne’s eyes fall to her lap. “I don’t think so. He is a knight who rules his own house.”

Sansa feels a pang of pity for her friend. Poor Jeyne. Her father is a second son, and his older brother, the lord of an already small keep and lands, has two sons. Jeyne’s dowry will be a small one. Darkstar is really the best she could hope for. 

_ It will keep her close to me, and that’s the important thing. It doesn’t matter if her husband is strange, as long as we can visit each other all the time and raise our children together. We’ll even have them get married, just like we always talked about, and then we’ll be family all over again when they do get married. _ She’s thought a lot about it, as she’s sure Jeyne also has. 

Arya shrugs. “Well, I still say he’s strange, and that you could do better.”

“Like who?” Jeyne scoffs.

“I don’t know. Someone who drinks real wine and not unsweetened lemon water.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Jeyne sniffs.

“And I’m not about to become Lady Darkstar, am I?”

“It’s Lady  _ Dayne _ , Arya.”

Arya considers. “Jeyne Dayne. That’s a stupid name.”

“Arya!” Sansa scolds...but she has to admit it  _ is _ a funny name. 


	55. NED VI

In the yard below, Arya tilts and whirls, her sword meeting Alysane’s with ease and grace.

She’s good, it has to be said. Better than most boys her age. Better than most boys  _ at all. _

_ She’s like Lyanna in that.  _ In so many ways, he sees his sister in Arya. That same wildness, that iron will, that feeling of never quite knowing their place. Their father had been stern with Lyanna, and she had run away with Rhaegar for it. Ned will not make the same mistake with Arya. After all, look at Maege Mormont and her daughters. True, they are odd women, but they are content, and none of  _ them _ have run off with princes and started a war. 

_ How different would things be if Lyanna had gotten her way. _

He thinks, once again, of his sister, probably somewhere beyond the Wall by now. It was madness for her to go, but what else was he to do? Roose Bolton had asked for proof, and Lyanna had been eager to deliver. 

_ I shouldn’t have let her go. _ He should have sent men in her stead or written to Benjen or  _ something _ . Not allowed her to go with her women companions. Not that Dacey can’t hold her own in a fight, but what kind of fight will the Others give? 

“Lord Stark,” Ser Rodrik says, approaching Ned on the walkway and pulling him from his thoughts. “Ser Wendel Manderly is approaching from the east. I already told Ser Wylis.”

“Thank you, Ser Rodrik.” Lingering for a moment to watch Arya duck a blow, he smiles and makes his way to the great hall to receive what he doesn’t doubt is ill news from White Harbor.

.

Ser Wendel and his escort are shown into the great hall once Ned has taken his seat, Ghost at his feet. Sansa, Jeyne Poole, and their strange visitor Ser Gerold Dayne-- _ Darkstar _ , as he asks to be called--stand off to the side, watching with what lords have also gathered.

“My lord,” says Wendel Manderly, the younger son of Lord Wyman and easily the smallest of the three Manderly men. “This woman claims to be Asha Greyjoy, the daughter of Balon Greyjoy. She came asking to be brought before you.”

There is indeed a woman with the Manderly men, her hair cut short, her clothes that of a man, and a kraken emblazoned across her chest. Yes, she has the Greyjoy look about her; he can see it now. The same eyes as Theon, the same lips so used to smiling. Only they aren’t smiling now. 

_ What is she doing here? To have caught her is one thing, but for her to ask to be brought before me? _

“Very well,” Ned says after a moment’s deliberation. “Come forward, Lady Asha.”

Asha Greyjoy does, surprising him by bending the knee. 

“Lord Stark,” she says in the voice of someone used to shouting commands--and unused to asking for things. “Over twenty years ago, my father rose in rebellion against the crown and named himself king. My older brothers, Rodrik and Maron, were killed, and my younger brother Theon was taken as your captive, with the understanding that if my father ever rose in rebellion again, he would pay for it with my brother’s life.” Her eyes, flinty with resolve only a moment ago, flicker with uncertainty. “My father has risen up in rebellion again. He names himself King of the Iron Islands.”

“I am aware,” he says. 

“I’ve come to beg for the life of my brother. I who am my father’s heir implore you, Eddard Stark, to let my brother live. He has done no wrong. Why should the son pay for the father’s crimes?”

He shifts uncomfortably in his chair. In truth, he has wondered often about Theon. When he took him as his ward, it was always the understanding that if Balon rose again, Theon would pay for it with his life...but Ned is a traitor to the crown just as much as Balon, and Theon is like a son to him. “Your father killed him as surely as any executioner’s blade.”

“I know. I know he did. Theon has been dead to my father as long as Rodrik and Maron.” She swallows. “But I beg you now, Lord Stark, spare him.”

He considers her. “Why do you care, Lady Asha? You have not seen Theon in many years, and you are your father’s heir. If his rebellion proves a success, you would someday become Queen of the Iron Islands.”

“I would rather have my brother safe than wear a crown, my lord.”

The emotion that finds him nearly chokes him. “Then you are nobler than most men, Lady Asha.”

Her lips twist in an ironic smile. “So I have been told.”

He almost smiles back...but he knows he must speak plain. “I am afraid you have come for naught, my lady. Theon is not here. We have not seen him since he and my son Robb were in King’s Landing.”

Asha’s eyes widen. “But I saw them in Sunspear. I was there when your son received the summons to come home, I accompanied them to the Dornish Marches.”

“The Marches?”

“They expressed a desire to go by horse, and I dared not go further north.”

He rubs his forehead. Everyone has seen Robb and Theon, it seems, all except for him; perhaps their next visitor will have seen them wandering through the Crownlands. “I see.”

Lady Asha, still on her knee, shifts. “If Theon is alive...if he is unharmed...I will swear myself to your service, I will disavow my father and all my inheritance if you spare my brother’s life.”

He hesitates. On the one hand, he has no wish to kill Theon, but on the other, it would benefit him more than not to have Balon Greyjoy’s other child and heir in his service. “Swear yourself to me and Theon’s life will be spared.”

Asha Greyjoy sags in relief. Wendel Manderly hands her her dirk, and she moves closer, laying it at Ned’s feet. 

“I offer my services, Lord Eddard Stark. I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the old gods and the new.”

In a ringing voice heard throughout the hall, he says, “And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table, and I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. I swear it by the old god and the new. Arise, Asha Greyjoy.”

Her ascent is met with applause and sounds of approval. Ned stands to embrace her, welcoming her into his service.

_ Neither of us wanted Theon to die...and now, he doesn’t have to. _

.

Asha Greyjoy settles in well at Winterfell. As well as an ironborn can, anyway. She gets along with all the Mormont women and Arya, who trails after her constantly like a pup following its master. And speaking of pups, the wolves all seem to like her, which comes as a relief to Ned. They can sense things no person can, and their fondness for Asha Greyjoy assures him that she is a good person. 

He is less certain of this Darkstar, of whom Nymeria does not approve. Even Ghost tenses up around the other man. Ned mistrusts him, but he doesn’t have the heart to turn him out; after all, he’s done nothing wrong, and hosting him would be a good opportunity to mend the wrongs of so long ago.

That, and little Jeyne Poole is enamored with him. 

“I have no dowry to give him,” Vayon frets. “Not one sufficient enough for a Dayne, at any rate.”

Ned hesitates. “If her heart is truly set on him...I will help provide the dowry.”

Vayon stiffens in his seat. “Thank you, my lord, but I can manage on my own.”

“You and Jeyne are part of this household; I’m happy to help.”

“I would rather not accept it, my lord.” 

Ned understands that. Vayon is not a proud man, but even humble men have their limits. He has never voiced complaint about his place here, has never resented his brother for being the elder and for ruling the Poole estate, nor has he ever seemed unhappy with his place here as steward. But to accept his master’s aid in providing a dowry...well, Ned can see why he bristles at the thought.

“Very well.”

Vayon hesitates. “In truth, I’d rather they not marry at all.”

Ned raises his eyebrows. “Truly?”

“Truly. He is...not the sort of man I would have picked for Jeyne,” Vayon says delicately. “But what can I do? If I forbid her from seeing him, she will only want to see him more, and if I give my blessing now, while she’s still besotted, she may well marry the man and make the biggest mistake of her life.”

“You truly think that?”

Vayon shrugs helplessly. “ _ You’ve _ seen him, you know what he’s...what he’s like. He may be a Dayne, but it seems the honor and goodness of Starfall remained there, and all the bad parts went to High Hermitage.”

It’s true that Darkstar is nothing like his cousins--those that Ned has met, anyway. Ashara, Arthur, and Edric were all as honorable and good as Vayon says, but Darkstar seems to possess neither of these qualities. He is not dishonorable, exactly, but his honor seems only skin-deep. 

“Perhaps another match can be arranged for Jeyne,” Ned muses. “She is of noble stock. The Umbers, perhaps.”

Vayon smiles. “You haven’t been paying attention, my lord.”

“No?”

Vayon shakes his head. “Smalljon Umber is often seen in the company of your sister’s lady-in-waiting, Walda Frey.”

“Walda?” he asks in surprise. 

“Walda,” the other man confirms. “I’ve heard her jest that there’s...nothing small about him.” 

Ned rubs his forehead. “I shall have to speak to Lyanna when she gets back. A Frey marriage would benefit the North.”

“My thoughts exactly.” 

“Well what about the Cerwyn boy?”

“A possibility. But don’t trouble yourself, my lord. I had some thought of marrying Jeyne to my nephew, if a suitable match could not be found. My brother did not seem opposed to the idea.”

Ned bows his head. “I am happy to assist in whatever way I can. You only have to speak the word.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Vayon goes to refill Ned’s horn, but Maester Luwin enters the study at that moment, his face grave.

“What is it?” Ned asks, his spirits already sinking.

Maester Luwin clears his throat. “A raven came from Castle Black, my lord. Your sister has been taken and is now being held hostage by the wildlings.”

“Hostage?” Ned asks, standing up so quickly he knocks over his horn. “Is she alright?”

“Your brother Benjen writes that she is safe but urges you to make haste; he holds a list of terms the wildlings have made for her safe return.”

“They have terms now, do they?” Ned asks darkly. “Very well. I’ll need as many men as can ride north with me ready to leave at once.”

“Yes, my lord,” Vayon says, already leaving to carry out his orders.

“Maester Luwin, will you send my daughters to my chamber? I would like to speak with them before I leave.”

“Of course, my lord.”

Ned strides to his chamber, where his squire, the boy Ned Umber, helps him change into his riding leathers and packs warm clothes for the journey ahead. 

“My lord?” the boy asks tentatively. 

“Yes?” Ned doesn’t mean to be brusque, but it will take days to reach the Wall, and who knows how much longer it will take the wildlings to release Lyanna to him?  _ Gods, what has my sister gotten herself into now? _

“Is my father alright?”

Ned looks down at the boy named after him, his wide eyes fearful and hopeful all at once. He sighs, crouching down to look the boy face-to-face.

“I don’t know, Ned. But I know your father is a strong man--stronger than any in the North. It would take a whole army of wildlings to take him down.”

The boy smiles. “That’s true.”

“I’m sure he’s alright, but I’ll send word as soon as I hear,” Ned promises. 

“Thank you, Lord Stark.”

“Father?”

Sansa and Arya stand in the doorway, concerned looks on their faces. Ned dismisses his squire and pats the bed for the girls to sit on either side of him.

“You’re going away,” Arya deduces.

“I am. Your aunt is in some trouble beyond the Wall; the wildlings are holding her hostage.”

“The wildlings?” Arya asks with eager eyes. Then, remembering herself, “Is she alright?”

“For now.”

“Can I come with you?”

“Absolutely not,” he chuckles. “I don’t want to be worrying about Lyanna  _ and _ you.”

“How long will you be gone?” Sansa asks.

“I don’t know. It’s a long ride to Castle Black, and I don’t know how long I’ll need to stay there after that. I hope I can return soon. In the meantime, Winterfell is yours.”

“Mine?” Sansa repeats, eyes widening.

He nods his head. “You are the eldest Stark here while I’m gone; that makes you the Lady of Winterfell. Vayon and Maester Luwin will advise you. Remember to be gentle and just with everyone...including your sister.”

“ _ Especially _ me,” Arya teases.

Sansa cannot manage a smile back. “But...what if I’m not good at it?”

“You will be, sweetling.” He kisses her forehead. “And anyway, it won’t be for long.”

“Think of it as practice for when you’re Lady of Starfall,” Arya suggests.

Annoyingly, that seems to give Sansa the confidence she needs. She nods, decided. “Alright. I’ll do it. I’ll be the Lady of Winterfell.”

“Good.” He kisses Arya’s forehead too. “And you  _ behave _ . No running off, no playing tricks, no aggravating your sister. She needs you, as you need her. You may be as different as the sun and moon, but the same blood flows through your veins. Remember what I always say.”

“The lone wolf dies,” Arya says at once.

“But the pack survives,” Sansa finishes. 

His heart swells with pride. “The pack survives,” he agrees. He kisses them both one more time before getting up. They follow him out to the yard, where he kisses them a third time before swinging into his saddle. 

“Ghost,” he calls, and the direwolf trots after him as he leads his bannermen out of Winterfell and north to Castle Black. When he glances back, he sees his daughters with their arms around each other. 

_ Gods be good, I hope I come back. _


	56. CATELYN V

Roose Bolton stays at the Eyrie for so long that Catelyn is sure he means to live here--permanently. Days melt into weeks, and with each passing hour, Lysa seems to fall more in love with the man.

_ At least he has not brought his son here, _ Catelyn thinks gratefully. Rickon’s dream still unsettles her, even though it  _ had _ been a dream and may not have been a green dream at all. Or if it was, perhaps it’s more figurative than literal; perhaps he saw a distant future where Roose Bolton got a son on Lysa, and that son surpassed Robin and Lysa to rule the Vale on his own. That’s a possibility...but still an unpleasant one.

Catelyn tries, pointlessly, to dissuade her sister from courting Roose Bolton, but Lysa always tosses her head and says, “Pooh on that!” She’s taken with the man...and oddly, he seems taken with her. Not just for the wealth and titles and power such a marriage would bestow on him, but with Lysa herself. Catelyn often finds her sister sitting on his lap, giggling like a common tavern wench. 

“Has she no shame?” she seethes to Uncle Brynden, who only shakes his head. 

“You have to understand, Cat...it’s hard for her, being the younger sister. She always felt overshadowed by you--all younger siblings feel overshadowed by their elders. You were always the prettier and smarter catch, the firstborn of the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands. She was always his other daughter.”

Catelyn gapes at him. “I have never thought of Lysa like that!”

“Perhaps not. But everyone else did, including Lysa. Think on it from her perspective, Cat. You were betrothed to the heir to Winterfell, yet the boy Lysa loved loved you. He fought a duel for you, and lost, and she never got to see him again. When Brandon died, you married his younger brother, no less of a catch, and she married an old man with bad breath. You loved your husband and prospered in the North; she hated her husband and was miserable at court. You have five healthy children. She’s had one child out of dozens of miscarriages and stillbirths. Now, for once in her life, she holds power over you, and not only that, but your own husband’s bannerman has come here to court her. It shames you, and that’s why it’s so attractive to her.”

Catelyn has never considered it like this. She’d always pitied Lysa’s misfortune, but to see it propped up against her own happiness like that…

“Oh.”

“Oh,” he echoes with a knowing nod. 

“But surely there’s something we can do?”

“I’m afraid to say the best thing to do is to let it run its course.”

“That’s not good enough, Uncle.” 

“It will have to be. What else are we supposed to do? Lysa has us both locked up here.”

“I know.” She sits at the window seat, miserable. Outside, the wind whistles and howls, a reminder of just how isolated she is from the rest of the world up here. She longs to see Ned and their children again, to sleep safely in her bed at Winterfell and not fear for the lives of her children. 

Lysa bursts into the room, beaming. “Sister, uncle, I have wonderful news.”

Catelyn’s heart is already sinking.

“Lord Bolton and I have decided to wed!”

Catelyn glances at Uncle Brynden, who gives her a warning look. Though the words pain her to say, she manages, “That’s wonderful news, Lysa.”

“Isn’t it?” Lysa beams. “I have felt so lonely since P--since Jon died. Roose  _ understands _ me.” 

“I’m happy for your, Lysa,” Uncle Brynden says with more sincerity than Catelyn could manage. “He’ll be a good husband to you...and a good father to Robin.”

“Yes,  _ exactly _ !” she says ecstatically. “He has sons himself, so he knows how to raise them. Oh, speaking of his sons--not his trueborn, the boy died some years ago, tragically--his baseborn son, Ramsay, is coming for the wedding.”

She glides out of the room, leaving Catelyn’s heart pounding.

.

With every passing day, Catelyn becomes more and more afraid. Lysa is going to marry Roose Bolton, and his son is going to kill her and Robin. 

_ He may kill me too. If the Boltons are truly rebelling against Ned, what need have they for his wife and youngest son? Am I useful enough to be a bargaining chip, or am I merely a witness to their crimes? _

She starts making Rickon and Shaggydog sleep in her room with her--for both her protection and for Rickon’s. She feels safer with Shaggydog at the foot of the bed. He wakes them with his growling if a maid he isn’t used to comes in in the morning, of course he’d alert them (and protect them) if Roose Bolton’s son came for them in the night. 

As the day draws nearer, lords and ladies from the Vale gather at the Eyrie to witness the wedding--presumably to share Lysa’s happiness, but Catelyn knows she would have married Roose on the spot if he’d allowed it. With witnesses all about, no one can contest the marriage.

Among the guests are Bronze Yohn Royce of Runestone, Lady Anya Waynwood of Ironoaks, Eustace and Harlan Hunter of Longbow Hall, Mychel Redfort of Redfort, Lord Benedar Belmore of Strongsong, Ser Symond Templeton of Ninestars, and Myranda Royce of the Gates of the Moon. All noble men and women who speak kindly to Catelyn and ask about Ned.

“In Winterfell,” she tells them all with a sad smile. “With my girls.”

“Will you return to Winterfell after the wedding?” Yohn Royce asks.

Catelyn’s eyes flit to Lysa, who is thankfully too preoccupied with Roose Bolton to pay her much mind. “That depends on my sister...and her new husband.”

“I knew your husband when he fostered here, my lady. I stayed at the Eyrie for a time, too.”

“Ned told me.”

Yohn Royce lowers his voice. “We all remember your husband fondly, Lady Stark. Your husband, and Jon Arryn.”

She grips his hand, hoping she is not reading too much into what he’s saying. “Thank you, Lord Royce.” 

He bows his head and leaves her to ponder how much she can trust Yohn Royce--and with what.

.

The day before the wedding, Ramsay Snow makes his way up to the Eyrie. Catelyn spends the whole day with her stomach in knots, wondering how quickly the murder is going to begin. 

_ As soon as Roose marries Lysa, he can legitimize his son and have done with Robin and Lysa. _

When Ramsay finally does arrive at evenfall, Catelyn is forced to greet him in the front hall with her sister and soon-to-be good-brother. Robin comes too, but Rickon must stay in Catelyn’s room with Shaggydog; Lysa had forbidden the direwolf to greet any of the guests, and Rickon cannot abide leaving Shaggydog alone.

The man who enters the hall looks exactly like his father, though where Roose is stern and silent, Ramsay seems loud and easygoing. He strides to his father with a wide smile; he reaches to embrace him, but Roose shrugs off the gesture.

_ Ah. _ So that’s the way it is, then.

Catelyn pretends not to notice, but out of the corner of her eye, she sees the hardness on Ramsay’s face.

“Lysa,” Roose says, bringing his son closer. “This is my son, Ramsay. Ramsay, this is Lady Lysa Arryn.”

“Mother,” Ramsay greets, kissing her cheek.

Lysa beams. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Ramsay. And this is my son, Robin.”

Robin looks up at Ramsay with wide eyes. “Are we to be brothers now?”

Ramsay bends down to look at him. “Yes, Lord Robin. I will be the brother you never had...and you will be as true a brother to me as the one I lost some years ago.”

_ Gods be good, _ Catelyn thinks.  _ Did he kill Domeric, too?  _

Ramsay looks at her at that moment, and she swears he can read her thoughts. 

“You must be my aunt,” he says. “Lady Catelyn.”

“I am,” she says stiffly, stepping back when he moves to kiss her cheek.

Ramsay smiles. 

_ He knows. He knows that I know, he knows that I fear him. He knows that I fear he’ll kill me in my sleep. Domeric, Lysa, Robin, me. How many will he kill before someone stops him? _

.

The meager sunlight that filters in through the sept’s stained glass casts a dark, eerie pall over the room. Even the candles cannot bring enough light to the room, and some of the guests stand in shadow as they watch Lysa take Roose Bolton as her husband. Catelyn keeps her hands on Rickon’s shoulders, afraid of letting him go. Off to the side, Robin wipes his nose with his sleeve, looking morose as his mother brings another man into her life.

_ That poor child, _ she thinks.  _ If only I could do something. If only I could help him. _

But perhaps...perhaps she could. She is trapped up here, but haven’t Lysa’s knights and Vale lords told her they remembered her husband? They were loyal to Jon Arryn, and now his widow, a woman they barely know, puts another man in his place. They must all know, surely, what this means. 

_ Would they stop it if they could? _

Seized by impulse, she turns to her side, where Yohn Royce watches the ceremony with barely concealed contempt.

“Lord Royce,” she murmurs, and he leans towards her to better hear her soft voice. “I wonder if I could prevail upon you for a favor.”

“Name it, Lady Stark, and it is done.”

She lowers her voice to a bare whisper. Lord Royce listens attentively, and when she has finished, he looks at her with a face devoid of emotion. 

_ Did I overstep? Does he think me too greedy, too eager? _

But then he bows his head. “I will see it done.”

She sags in relief, applauding with the other guests as the ceremony concludes. This will be her last night in the Eyrie--one way or another.


	57. BENJEN II

The day Ned and his army finally arrive at Castle Black is the day Benjen can finally breathe again.

Mance and his army have camped out three leagues from the Wall, closer than a group of attacking wildlings have ever come before.

_ Only they’re not attacking. Not yet, anyway. _

As soon as Ned strides through the gate, he embraces his brother, and then just as quickly steps back and shoves him in the chest.

“What were you thinking?!” he asks angrily. “That’s our sister you could’ve killed!”

“Ned, I know,” Benjen pleads. “We had fifty men when we left Castle Black, she was safe, if it hadn’t been for Mance Rayder--”

“And why did you not account for Mance Rayder?”

It’s been a long time since Benjen felt like a little boy, but right now, Ned reminds him so much of their father. He hangs his head, unable to meet his brother’s eyes. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. She’s safe, I saw her yesterday; the wildlings are treating her well.”

Ned makes a noise of contempt. “Well, let’s go meet with these wildlings, then.”

Ashamed, Benjen and twenty other men saddle up, leading the Northmen below the Wall and out onto the other side. His brother’s brought quite a force with him--twenty thousand men, if Benjen counts correctly.

_ Nearly half of Mance’s forces, _ he thinks bitterly. He still isn’t so sure about this plan to let the wildlings through the Wall, but he supposes that, as long as they keep to their word, there’s no great harm in it. 

_ And if they don’t keep to their word? _

Well. He won’t think about that now.

.

The wildlings are waiting for them; no doubt their scouts doubled back to report the army’s coming to Mance. Mance himself stands at the head of the camp, watching their coming with an unreadable expression. 

Benjen and Ned dismount, making for the King-Beyond-the-Wall as Ned’s captains fan out behind him.

“Mance,” Benjen calls. “This is my brother, Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell.”

Mance barely inclines his head. “Lord Stark.”

“Mance Rayder...King-Beyond-the-Wall, my brother calls you?”

Mance’s lips twitch in something like a smile. “You can call me whatever you like, Lord Stark. This way.” He leads Benjen and the Northmen to a wide tent, where they each of them hand over their weapons before ducking under the flaps.

A collection of tables have been stacked together, crude and mismatched chairs placed along them. Sitting in one is Lyanna, but she rises to embrace Ned. 

“You’re alright?” he murmurs, holding her tight.

“I’m fine.” She pulls back, smiling. “Mance has been a good host. Come, sit.”

The Northmen and wildlings take their seats, all looking shiftily between Ned and Mance. It’s Lyanna who breaks the silence.

“Thank you for coming,” she says to the Northmen. “The King-Beyond-the-Wall has some terms he would see met before he can release me back to my family...terms that I agree would be best not only for his people, but for ours, as well.” She clears her throat. “It is our wish that the free folk be granted safe passage through the Wall and given lands to live on and work. With the Army of the Dead approaching, we must take every precaution that no man, woman, or child is left north of the Wall.”

The lords look to Ned, who also clears his throat. “I see no issue with this request. The Gift is not what it once was; perhaps with new residents, the land might be worked to its full potential.”

Some of the lords murmur. 

“Does anyone object to this?” Ned asks, raising his voice. 

“Last Hearth will be most affected by it,” the Greatjon rumbles. “And we have no objection.”

“Karstark won’t be happy,” Robin Flint says. 

“Lord Karstark isn’t here,” Ned points out dryly. “Perhaps if he had been, he would have had some say in the matter.”

Benjen shifts. “If I might make a suggestion…?”

Mance nods. 

“The Night’s Watch is not what it used to be,” Benjen says. “Less than a thousand men serve between the three castles, and we have other castles besides that have long been abandoned. If the Army of the Dead is truly coming, we’ll need more men to restore those castles and man them to ensure that the Others don’t get over the Wall without warning.” 

Mance considers this. “Are you saying you want the free folk to man these castles?”

“Yes. We need the men, and you need a safe place for your people to live. And you need the approval of the North to do it. Send your farmers to the Gift and your fighters and builders to the castles. They can bring their families and restore the castles to their former glory, all while having stone walls to defend themselves if the Others truly do make it past the Wall.”

Mance considers this. “Well?” he asks the wildlings seated at the table.

“We will not be crows,” one of them growls.

“No one’s asking you to be,” Benjen clarifies. “Only to help defend your people when the Army of the Dead comes marching.”

The wildlings are quiet for a moment...but one by one, they all nod.

“We will defend these castles,” they agree. “But we are not kneelers. We do not kneel to any man, crow or king.”

“No one will make you kneel,” Lyanna assures them. “I swear it on my honor as a Stark.”

Mance bows his head. “Then we have decided. We will man the castles and take up residence in the Gift, and no man, crow or otherwise, will interrupt us.”

“You have my word,” Ned says. 

“And mine,” Benjen agrees.

“And mine,” Lyanna says. “For what it’s worth.”

Mance smiles at her. “It will serve.”

They drink a toast to their new arrangement. Benjen sends his men to ride ahead to Castle Black to inform Lord Commander Mormont, and Mance has his people prepare for the march south. The preparations made, the three Stark siblings stand off to the side, watching the camp pack up around them.

“Lyanna, I want you to go home,” Ned says.

“But the Northern lords want proof, and I haven’t gotten to give it to them.”

“Benjen will bring back a wight. I can’t risk you getting kidnapped again, or worse.”

“Ned--”

“I’m serious, Lya,” he says, his voice strained. “My family is falling apart at the seams. I haven’t heard from Catelyn or Robb or Jon in months. Sansa and Arya are the only children I have left to me. I can’t stand the thought of losing you, too.”

Her face softens. “I won’t die, Ned.”

“You don’t know that.”

Benjen clears his throat. “He’s right, Lya. I never should have let you go.”

“It worked out for the better, didn’t it?”

“But what if it hadn’t? What if the wildlings had killed all of us?”

She hesitates. “Well…”

“I’ll go,” Benjen says. “I’ll bring men with me, Night’s Watch and wildlings both. We’ll find a wight.”

Lyanna still looks unsure. “I told them I would bring back proof.”

“You are a queen; you should never have gone in the first place,” Ned says gently. “Go back to Winterfell and look out for the girls; I’ll stay up north to help the free folk settle in, and Benjen will find a wight to present to the Northern lords. Please, Lya.”

Her resolve crumbles. “Very well,” she allows, shoulders sagging. 

Benjen and Ned’s shoulders also sag, but theirs with relief. Getting Lyanna to do anything is like trying to lead a mule: impossible, and more often than not leads to a kick in the pants.

.

The black brothers watch silently as forty thousand wildlings pass through the tunnel below the Wall. Eight thousand years of keeping them out, and now they let all of them through at once. 

It’s a good thing Alliser Thorne disappeared when he did. The master-at-arms had never been sympathetic to the wildlings, and would surely have pitched a fit if he’d found out what was happening now.

_ Most like he’s been turned into a wight by now, _ Benjen thinks darkly.

As it is, Jeor Mormont orders his men to look on the wildlings as their own brothers now. Some meet this statement with more resentment than others. 

One such man is Jaime Lannister, who’s just arrived from King’s Landing. They take murderers and rapers all the time up here, but they’ve never had a kingslayer before. Benjen can’t tell who’s less happy with his presence here: Lannister, or the other brothers of the Night’s Watch. Both seem contemptuous of one another, and more than once, Benjen has to pry them apart in fights. 

“I thought we were supposed to be protecting the realm from these people,” Lannister says as the wildlings pass through.

Benjen steps closer, staring the other man down. “I know you haven’t said your words yet, Lannister, but let me give you a hint: we swear to guard the realms of men.  _ Men. _ These are men you see before you. What’s coming after them, after all of us, are not men. They’re the ones we’re meant to guard, Lannister.”

The golden-haired, green-eyed man eyes him with resentment. “Then you believe all this talk of grumkins and snarks?”

Benjen has a horrible, wonderful idea. “I do. And when we’re finished, you will too.”

A flicker of uncertainty passes over Lannister’s eyes. “When we’re finished? With what?”

“Going beyond the Wall, of course. I must needs catch a wight...and you’re going to help me.”

“I...I haven’t said the words yet. Only a sworn brother can go beyond the Wall,” Lannister protests.

“Oh, I think you’re more than ready. Weren’t you bragging to the other men that you’re the best fighter in the Seven Kingdoms?” When Lannister’s face pales, Benjen chuckles. “Start practicing, Lannister. You’ll say those words tonight, and we’ll leave at first light tomorrow.” 


	58. BRAN II

He’s having the dream again.

It’s the one where he’s a wolf. Not just any wolf; Summer. The direwolf pads along on silent feet, smelling all there is to smell in the forest. Most of them are familiar smells--birds and rabbits, squirrels and dogs. Men, farther off, and water close by. 

A new smell emerges, and he sniffs eagerly.

No, not a new smell.

A familiar smell.

_ Brother. _

Bran wakes with a start. Above him, the early morning light dances on his ceiling, shadows passing in and out of the slants of sunlight as the trees move with the wind. Bran lets his heartbeat return to normal before he sits up, looking around him.

He likes his room here at Riverrun. There are more windows here than there are at Winterfell, more ways for him to look outside--and climb in and out as he pleases. Uncle Edmure doesn’t mind; if anything, he thinks it’s funny, how Bran can climb all over the castle. 

Bran likes his Uncle Edmure. He’s younger at heart than most grownups, and he knows how to have fun. Sometimes he and Bran will stay up all night playing games or getting into mischief. Usually Bran is the one who has to get him out of it, like the time Uncle Edmure drank too much and went swimming in the Red Fork.

“Don’t tell your mother,” Uncle Edmure had begged. He didn’t mind his servants and bannermen knowing about it, but he couldn’t abide the thought of his sister knowing.

Bran, who has seen his mother get angry, swore not to tell her. 

He gets out of bed and gets ready for the day ahead now, washing his face and combing his hair before changing into the red and blue squire’s tunic. Dressed and ready, he goes to his uncle’s chamber to wake him.

To his surprise, Uncle Edmure is already up, composing a letter. He’s still wearing his night clothes, and the patchiness of his beard suggests he has not yet shaved.

“A love poem for Lady Roslin?” Bran guesses, pulling out smallclothes for the day ahead.

“Yes. She seemed most responsive to the last one I sent her.”

Bran tries not to smile as he sets the clothes on the bed. “Are you going to marry her?”

“Soon, I hope. Her father haggles worse than a fishmonger, but he’s been after me to marry one of his daughters for years, so he can hardly afford to scare me off now.” Uncle Edmure reads his lines, nods in approval, and blows the ink to dry. Leaving the letter on his desk, he sits patiently while Bran washes his face with hot water, lathers his cheeks and chin, and begins to shave. 

Bran doesn’t know why he says it, but he does. “I dreamt I was a wolf.”

“Mm?” Uncle Edmure hums, not disinterested.

“Well, not just any wolf. I dreamt I was Summer. I was walking through the forest and I smelled something.”

“What?” Uncle Edmure asks, trying not to move his face too much lest the razor slip. 

“I don’t know. I thought it was one of my brothers, but it couldn’t have been. They’re all far away.”

“You’ll see them again soon,” Uncle Edmure soothes. 

Bran isn’t so sure. It’s been weeks since they heard from Mother and Rickon, and there’s been no word from Robb, either. 

_ What if something happened to them? _

Maester Vyman enters with a light knock. “Pardon, my lord, but I have had word from Raventree Hall.”

“The Brackens again?” Uncle Edmure asks humorlessly as Bran wipes his face clean. 

“No, my lord; the Blackwoods claim to have encountered the Brotherhood Without Banners.” 

Uncle Edmure swears. “Damn those rogues and all they stand for! Brotherhood Without Banners. What a stupid name.”

Bran hides his eager face as he takes away the bowl and razor. He’s heard all about the Brotherhood Without Banners--indeed, he admires them. Outlaws who swear allegiance to the people of Westeros, not to any lords or kings. They’ve been all over the Riverlands, carrying out their own form of justice; greedy men find themselves robbed while orphans and widows and the poor miraculously come into coin, men who beat their wives and children find themselves missing a hand, and dishonest men find themselves tied to their beds with not a stitch of clothes on them, bared for all the world to see.

“They mock me,” Uncle Edmure continues. “They think there is no justice in the Riverlands, so they mete it themselves. More and more join them every day, you know.”

“They are a disorganized group of bandits, my lord, nothing more,” Vyman soothes. 

“What have they done this time?”

“It seems they took a man who began whoring out his own daughter and locked him naked in stocks for all the town to see. The daughter has not been seen or heard from, but her friend believes she went with the Brotherhood.”

“More’s the pity. Still,” Uncle Edmure allows gruffly, “I suppose it was for the best. Has Lord Blackwood done anything about the man?”

“He left him in the stocks three days, my lord, before releasing him.”

“Three days,” Uncle Edmure says uneasily. “That isn’t nearly enough penance, do not you agree?”

“He should have been whipped, too,” Bran finds himself saying. “To treat his own daughter like that.”

Uncle Edmure nods. “My nephew speaks true. Tell Lord Blackwood that it is not only unseemly, but it is unjust for him to treat such a man thusly. Order one lash for every coin the man accepted.”

Maester Vyman bows his head. “As you say, my lord. There is one other piece of news, before I leave you.”

“Tell me.”

The maester clears his throat. “Your sister, Lady Lysa, has taken Roose Bolton for her husband.”

Uncle Edmure looks surprised. “Bolton? Of the North?”

“Yes, my lord; he rules the Dreadfort.”

“Dreadfort,” Uncle Edmure mutters, as if he thinks it a stupid name. “She wrote to tell you this?”

“Her maester did.”

“And there’s been no word from Lady Catelyn?”

“I’m afraid not, my lord.”

Bran’s shoulders sag with disappointment. It was too much to hope, he supposes.

“Well, send her my regards, then.”

“As you say, my lord.” Maester Vyman bows and leaves them.

“Do you know this Roose Bolton?” Uncle Edmure asks.

Bran shakes his head. “Not really.”

“But he is your father’s bannerman?”

“Yes.”

“Then perhaps that’s a good thing,” Uncle Edmure muses. “If Lysa wed a Northman, then perhaps your mother was successful in persuading her to our side.” He leans back in his chair. “But why on earth would she marry when it would only mean handing over the Regency? She could rule the Vale on her own until Robin comes of age.”

Bran doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know enough about his Aunt Lysa or Roose Bolton to say one way or the other. 

“Well, what shall we do today?” Uncle Edmure asks once he has dressed. He leads the way down to the hall where they will break their fast. “I fancy a ride, don’t you?”

“Yes, but don’t forget you have to hold court later, to hear the grievances of the Seagard people after the ironborn attack.”

Uncle Edmure groans. “I’d nearly forgotten. Who was it who led the attack? Ur...Yur…”

“Euron Greyjoy, who’s named himself King of the Iron Islands.”

“Wasn’t Balon the one who named himself king?”

“He did, but he died, and his younger brother Euron has named himself king in his stead.” Bran thinks about his father’s ward Theon, and wonders if the other man is alright. 

Uncle Edmure seems to be thinking along similar lines. “Didn’t Balon have a son that your father took in?”

“Yes, but he’s with Robb, and nobody knows where they are.”

Uncle Edmure sighs. “Very well, then I suppose I’ll have to do something about these ironborn attacks. It’s not as if I can appeal to the crown after harboring your father and Queen Lyanna, and the North doesn’t have a navy on its western shore.”

They’ve come down the great winding staircase when Utherydes Wayn jogs up to them. 

“Lord Edmure! Your sister is without.”

“My sister?” Uncle Edmure repeats in surprise. “Lysa?” He goes to the outer chamber, Bran hot on his heels.

It is not Aunt Lysa who waits without, but Mother, Rickon, Shaggydog...and Bran’s cousin, Robin Arryn.


	59. THEON VI

The arrow catches Beric in the eye.

He sinks to the ground, hand over his eye as he and Thoros collectively shout.

“Look what you fucking did,” Theon scoffs. “You put an arrow through his  _ eye _ .”

“A fine sight better than missing it completely,” Anguy says defensively, but he looks guilty. 

Beric dies an agonizing death, and when he’s still, Thoros brings him back to life again.

“How do you feel, my lord?” Edric asks.

Beric sits up with a grunt. “Like shit.”

Everyone exclaims, because what was once his eye is now a bloody mass. Melly rips off the hem of her dress and soaks it in wine, cleaning the blood from the wound. The newest addition to the Brotherhood was only too happy to join them after they locked her father in the stocks. Theon and Anguy are teaching her to use a bow and arrow, which is how they got into this mess in the first place. It had devolved into an archery contest, as always, and there had been ale, and then Beric had loudly dared the two archers to try and kill him.

Beric’s ability to be brought back from the dead is a recent discovery, and one they have abused heartily. He’s been brought back several times now, and though he claims each time makes him feel a little less, it also makes him a little more reckless. Which is why he’d drunkenly challenged Theon and Anguy to try and shoot him with their arrows. Theon had missed--but Anguy had struck true.

“Alright, no more killing Beric!” Lem declares. 

“It was his idea.”

“I  _ said, _ no more killing Beric, I mean it!” 

Even so, the arrow wound is nasty, and they end up having to take Beric to Acorn Hall to have the maester look at the wound.

“What did you do to him now?” Lady Smallwood asks, half-amused, half-exasperated as she lets them in. 

“Nothing he didn’t tell us to do,” Anguy insists. 

“This idiot got drunk and took out his eye.”

“He got drunk and told me to kill him!”

Lady Smallwood rolls her eyes. “Oh, very well.”

“Is your husband around?” Tom asks innocently as she leads them into the keep.

“He’s away on business,” she says with equal innocence--but they all know there’s nothing innocent about the conversation between the two. Tom had Lady Smallwood’s maidenhead years ago, and he still has her when the Brotherhood come through nowadays. 

The maester tends to Beric’s eye--or what’s left of it--while Lady Smallwood feeds them.

“This one is new,” she remarks, nodding at Melly.

“I had a bad father,” Melly says. “Now I have a whole host of brothers.”

Lady Smallwood smiles. “I’m glad to hear it. But you ever tire of these smelly men, you come to me and I’ll find a place for you here, you understand?”

“Yes, milady, thank you.”

“Any news since last we came through?” Lem asks. 

Lady Smallwood considers. “Renly Baratheon and Cersei Lannister annulled their marriage-- _ quite _ the scandal, you know.”

“Heard she was fucking her brother.”

“Yes, and now she’s gone back to Casterly Rock with her tail between her legs and her brother’s been sent to the Night’s Watch.”

“What of their children?” Robb asks.

“They’re being fostered on Dragonstone--probably for the best, keeping them out of sight.” Lady Smallwood shifts. “What else? Oh, there’s another King of the Iron Islands, apparently.”

Theon looks up at her. “Another?”

“Mm, yes, Balon died mysteriously--he fell off of a bridge during a storm, I’m told--and now his brother rules in his place.”

“His brother?” Theon grips his spoon. “Which one?”

“Oh, let’s see, it starts with a...U? No, an R?”

“Euron,” he realizes, cold dread settling in his belly. 

“That’s the one.” Lady Smallwood tilts her head. “Isn’t that your family, Theon?”

He shakes his head, turning back to his soup. “Not anymore.”

Yet as the chatter continues around him, he can’t stop thinking,  _ My father is dead. My father is dead. My father is dead. _

Robb touches his shoulder. “You alright?”

“Fine.” He sits up. “I think I’ll go for a walk.” He gets up abruptly, walking out of the hall. Grey Wind trots along beside him, eager to get back outside. 

Does this mean he’d be welcome if he went back to Winterfell? Would Ned Stark kill him? Theon’s captivity was meant as a threat to his father, but nothing was said of his uncle. Euron never cared for him; what would Theon’s death do but make him that much more secure on his throne?

Robb finds him by the well, staring into the watery depths. 

“I’m sorry.”

Theon looks up at him. “About what?”

“Your father.” Robb rubs the back of his neck. “I know you weren’t... _ close _ , but...he was your father and all.”

Theon shakes his head, scratching Grey Wind behind the ears. “He was as dead to me as I was to him.”

Robb sits on the well beside him. “So.”

“So.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“What do you mean, what am I going to do now?”

Robb shrugs. “I mean, we were avoiding Winterfell because we were afraid my father would execute you for your father’s crimes. Now that he’s dead...perhaps we can go back.”

Theon hesitates. “Do you think we can?”

“Why not?”

“What about the Brotherhood?”

“They were taking us north before, why not again? It’s not as if we have anything better to do around here.”

He has a point. Though they’ve been serving justice where they see fit as they see fit, there’s been nothing keeping them here. Not really. They could mete out justice just as easily in the North as they could here. 

“I’ll talk to Beric and Thoros,” Robb continues. “I’m sure they’d be alright with it.”

Theon waits out by the well with Grey Wind while Robb speaks with Beric and Thoros. When he comes out to fetch Theon, Beric and Thoros come with him.

“All mended?” Theon asks.

“The gouge in my eye is healed,” Beric says. “But the splitting pain in my head is not.” He eases onto the stoop facing Theon. “I hear your father is dead.”

“Yes.”

“And you want to go back to Winterfell.”

“It’s my home.”

Beric nods. “You should go home. Both of you. But first, there is someone we must speak to.”

“Who?”

Beric shakes his head. “A woman, some say. A ghost, say others. One who sees the future and speaks it.”

Theon feels a chill run down his spine. “Where?”

Thoros gives a sardonic smile. “High Heart.”

.

High Heart is a high hill crested with thirty-one weirwood stumps. It’s said that the Andal King Erreg had his men slaughter the First Men and children of the forest alike here, and afterwards he cut down the weirwood grove where they worshipped the old gods, and so killed them, too.

The smallfolk do not go up here, so they are told. They think it a haunted place full of ghosts.

“A ghost is who we’re looking for,” Beric says as he leads them up the hill. 

Though it’s still daylight, they make camp and get comfortable. Tom plays his lute as ever, and when the food and drink and music and waning light makes Theon feel sleepy and comfortable, he leans up against one of the weirwood stumps and drifts asleep.

He wakes some hours later, when the night is dark and the only light comes from the embers of the fire. There is a woman talking to Beric and Thoros, with pale white skin and more wrinkles than Old Nan. 

“The old gods stir and will not let me sleep,” she says in a creaking voice. “I dreamt I saw a bird plucked of its feathers and thrown to the wind. I dreamt of a wild wolf dying of a knife in its belly, yet a red fire roared and it breathed again. I dreamt that a kraken rose from the depths to smite another, and take its place on a golden mountain. I dreamt the ringing of bells--so many bells!--and when they ceased to ring, an ancient shadow stretched its wings. All this I dreamt, and more.” Suddenly, she turns her head to look at Theon. “You cannot hide from me, lordling. Come closer, now.” 

Dubious, Theon gets to his feet, walking towards the crone and sitting before her.

She studies him with dim red eyes. “I see you, lordling.”

“I’m sitting right in front of you.”

“I  _ see _ you,” she insists. “Son of a king, brother of she who kneels, I see you. You’ve been to Summerhall, where I gorged on grief before your father had even been born. You will know your share of grief too, before this war is over.” 

His heart pounds. “What grief will I know?”

“Loss. Pain. The deaths of those around you. You will lose a battle precious to you, but take the prize nonetheless. That will be your last joy, before the night that never ends.” She turns to Beric as if she has not been speaking to Theon. “I’ll have my payment now. I’ll have the song you promised me.”

Tom strums his woodharp and sings.

_ “High in the halls of the kings who are gone _

_ Jenny would dance with her ghosts _

_ The ones she had lost and the ones she had found _

_ And the ones who had loved her the most _

_ The ones who’d been gone for so very long _

_ She couldn’t remember their names _

_ They spun her around on the damp old stones _

_ Spun away all her sorrow and pain _

_ And she never wanted to leave _

_ Never wanted to leave _

_ Never wanted to leave _

_ Never wanted to leave _

_ They danced through the day and into the night _

_ Through the snow that swept through the hall _

_ From winter to summer then winter again _

_ ‘Til the walls did crumble and fall _

_ And she never wanted to leave _

_ Never wanted to leave _

_ Never wanted to leave _

_ Never wanted to leave _

_ High in the halls of the kings who are gone _

_ Jenny would dance with her ghosts _

_ The ones she had lost and the ones she had found _

_ And the ones who had loved her the most.” _

The old woman weeps and rocks all through the song, and by its end she disappears back into the darkness. 

“Who was she?” Theon asks.

“A ghost,” Beric says simply. “Some say she was the woodswitch Jenny of Oldstones brought to court. A child of the forest.”

“Is she?” Theon asks in awe.

“I don’t know. I’ve never asked.”

“What does this mean?” Theon presses. “Can we go back to Winterfell?”

Beric strokes his chin and nods. “Aye. We can go back to Winterfell.”

.

In the morning, they pack up their camp and head east for the Kingsroad. Theon cannot stop thinking about all that the woman said. He knows not what to make of a bird plucked of its feathers, but the kraken rising from the sea to smite another...that’s his uncle, isn’t it? And the golden mountain must be Pyke...though nothing is golden about the island. 

And the wild wolf with a knife in its belly...is that one of the direwolves? And what is a red fire roaring? And ringing bells and an ancient shadow...what could it all mean?

_ I will know grief, she told me. I will lose a battle precious to me but take the prize, and that will be my last joy before the night that never ends. _

They stop for the night in a small town a few days’ ride from Riverrun, where they make themselves comfortable in the tavern. They’ve been here before, and the barmaids and patrons alike recognize them, cheering for the men who brought justice to their village. Word soon spreads of their presence, and more and more people flock to see the Brotherhood Without Banners. It is the closest Theon has ever felt to being someone important; he laughs and smiles and flirts with the tavern wenches while men buy him drinks.

One man sits across from Theon with a wide smile. He’s of an age with Theon, a fresh beard growing on his face and blue eyes set behind a mop of dark curls. “I’ve heard all about you lot. The Brotherhood Without Banners.”

Theon smiles. “I never thought becoming an outlaw would make me so popular.”

“Just like in the songs.” The man sips his ale. “I saw the wolf outside.”

“One of our brothers, only he doesn’t like to drink.”

The man laughs. “That’s a direwolf, isn’t it?”

“He is.”

“I didn’t know direwolves came this far south, or south of the Wall at all.”

“Some do.” Theon doesn’t want to outright tell this stranger who Robb is, but he think it’s alright. After all, what does it matter? They’ll soon be back at Winterfell.

“Where are you headed next?”

“North.”

“Can I come with you? I’m headed that way myself, to see my father again.”

“I don’t see why not,” Theon says in a friendly tone. “Men join us all the time.” He extends his hand. “I’m Theon.”

The man takes it, his smile widening. “You can call me Domeric.”


	60. BENJEN III

Jaime Lannister complains the whole journey beyond the Wall. 

Benjen finds himself annoyed and amused at varying intervals. He has to hand it to the kingslayer, though he’s right spoiled and pompous, he  _ does _ know how to hunt and track. He’s better at it even than Lommy and Hot Pie, two of the only men who Benjen could muster for the ranging.

Though “men” is a generous term for what the two lads are, which is just that: lads. They can’t be more than sixteen, probably younger, and some of the things they say make Benjen wonder if they aren’t half the age they appear. 

“I saw a battle in King’s Landing once,” Hot Pie boasts as they ride north. 

“Two men fighting outside a tavern isn’t a battle,” Lommy points out.

“Yes it was, they were knights.”

“How could you tell?”

“They had armor on.”

Lannister snorts. “You don’t have to be a knight to wear armor.”

Hot Pie swallows. “You don’t?”

“Of course not. Any fool can buy armor.”

Hot Pie considers this. “Oh.”

“I see the Night’s Watch only recruits the finest men,” Lannister says sarcastically. “Really scraping the bottom of the barrel with this one.”

“Oh, no,” Benjen says in a cheerful tone. “We scraped the bottom of the barrel with  _ you _ .”

Lannister casts him a withering look. “You’re lucky to have me. You’ve never had such a skilled swordsman before.”

“If you say so.”

Lannister’s face reddens. “You think you’re any better?”

“I think I’m First Ranger and you’re a new recruit, and as I have seniority here, I’m telling you to be quiet.”

Lannister shuts up at that...but only for a little bit. By nightfall, he’s telling anyone who will listen about all the tourneys he’s won. 

“I don’t suppose you tilted in any tourneys, Stark?” he asks smugly.

“No,” Benjen admits. “But then again, I always preferred fighting real battles to playing at them.”

“Have you fought many battles up here?” Lannister asks with an almost lazy indifference. “Against grumkins and snarks?”

“Perhaps battle was an over-generous word,” Benjen allows. “But I’ve fought men, and killed them. Not when their backs were turned, either, but when we were facing each other in skirmishes and single combat.”

“Skirmishes,” Lannister repeats. “You have many of those with the wildlings you so generously let through the gate?”

“I did, at that. Priorities change, and enemies become allies and allies become enemies. You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”

Lannister’s lips become a thin line. “You’re one to talk, Stark. One moment your sister’s the queen, the next, she’s trying to put a Targaryen on the throne.”

He has him there. Benjen shrugs, feeding the fire with another log. In the past, he’d have been wary of doing such a thing, but with most of the wildlings south of the Wall, he has little fear of scouts spying their fire. The only thing it’s like to draw are wights, and that’s exactly what they’re here to find. 

“Like I said. Priorities change.”

“They do. That monster killed your father and brother, yet this is the thanks I get for avenging their deaths?” 

Benjen stares into the flames, trying not to think of Father and Brandon. “You didn’t do it for them.”

“I didn’t,” Lannister agrees. “But I killed him all the same.”

The other men have grown silent during this exchange, pretending not to hear. Only Lommy and Hot Pie watch and listen openly, eyes wide and mouths agape. 

Benjen gets up. “Enough talking. I’ll take first watch.” He wanders off to a cluster of rocks that will give him a better view of their surroundings. 

He’s up there for a long time when Heward brings him a steaming bowl of broth. 

“Well, I’ll say this: there’s no lack for entertainment ‘round here,” Heward says with a sly grin. 

Benjen heaves a sigh. “That was not...worthy of me.”

“No, but there’s not much that’s worthy about Jaime Lannister, either.”

“A man’s crimes are forgotten when he takes the black. I should have forgotten his.”

“Slaying your king is a grievous crime.”

“So is murdering a man. So is raping a woman. Yet we take murderers and rapers and call them our brothers.”

Heward considers this. “Well, I wouldn’t want to call Jaime Lannister my brother, truth be told; we all know what he did with his  _ sister _ , imagine what he’d do to a  _ brother _ .”

The two men roar with laughter.

“Stop,” Benjen chuckles. “As I said, it’s not worthy. He  _ is _ our brother now.”

“As you say.” Heward leaves him to his thoughts.

_ It’s true. It was unworthy of me to treat him thus, even if he has naught but disdain for us. He served in the kingsguard and was a great knight. Here, he’s just another brother in black. Of course he hates it here. Most men do, even those that came here by choice. He’d hate it less if he thought of us as his brothers, and not just men he’s forced to be with. He’d hate it less if we were kind to him. _

In the morning, when they saddle the horses and prepare to continue on their journey, Benjen approaches Jaime and clears his throat. 

“I saw you at the Tourney at Harrenhal, all those years ago. When Aerys admitted you to the kingsguard.”

Lannister looks at him suspiciously. “A mistake.”

Benjen can feel his good deed slipping away. “You see it that way?”

Lannister shrugs. “Wouldn’t you? My sister convinced me to do it so I’d be closer to her. So I wouldn’t have to marry Lysa Tully. I was the youngest knight to ever be admitted. I thought I was something special.” He shakes his head. “Then Aerys sent me to King’s Landing before the tourney even started to guard Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys. I realized that day that he hadn’t honored me. He’d stripped my father of his son and heir. That was all he’d ever wanted to do.” He swings up into the saddle. “I’d say that was a mistake, wouldn’t you?”

“That tourney decided both our fates.” Benjen climbs into his own saddle. “You joined the kingsguard, and I heard a brother of the Night’s Watch call for recruits. It stayed with me, what he said, all through the war. As soon as my brother came back to Winterfell with a son and heir of his own, I rode north and took the black.”

“How nice for you,” Lannister says, sounding bored.

Benjen huffs. “I’m trying to be your friend, Lannister.”

“I don’t need any friends.”

“Seems to me you need all the friends you can get up here.”

Lannister considers him. “Why do you care?”

Benjen looks away. “I was unkind, before. A man’s crimes are forgotten when he takes the black. It was wrong of me to remind you of them.”

“You think I’m not reminded of my crimes every day I’m on this wretched earth?” Lannister shakes his head. “Spare me your noble pity, Stark, it’s unbecoming on a  _ superior. _ You dragged me on this fool’s errand to mock me, don’t try to make yourself feel better by playing the benevolent lordling now.” He urges his horse away from Benjen. 

Chastened and a little guilty, Benjen leads the men north, where they will find the Army of the Dead...or it will find them.


	61. LYANNA XX

She has to admit, as unhappy as she’d been to be dismissed from the Wall, a sense of relief floods her when Winterfell comes into view. 

Wherever she is in the world, she’s always thinking of Winterfell. It’s her home, more than the Red Keep ever was. She draws her strength from it and feels whole again.

Sansa and Arya greet her in the courtyard along with Fat Walda Frey, Wynafryd Manderly, and Ros. Lyanna greets her flock of hens happily, answering all of Arya’s questions about the Wall and the wildlings and squeezing Ros’s hand when no one’s looking. 

“Is Father coming?” Sansa asks, looking around.

“Later. He wants to oversee the wildlings moving into the Gift. Wynafryd, Walda, I’d love a hot bath if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” The two women scurry off to the kitchens to bring up the steaming pails of water. 

“Any word from your mother?” Lyanna asks her nieces.

Sansa shakes her head dolefully. “No. Nor from Robb. We do have visitors, though.”

“Who?”

“Ser Gerold Dayne of High Hermitage and Lady Asha Greyjoy of the Iron Islands, and Lord Bolton.”

“Bolton?” Lyanna repeats in surprise. In truth, all three of those names take her aback. What do a Dayne, a Greyjoy, and a Bolton have to do up here?  _ It sounds like the setup to a bad joke. _

“He just got here. I told him Father and the other lords went to Castle Black, but he said he wanted to wait here.”

Lyanna considers this. “Where is he now?”

“Getting leeched,” Arya says.

“Arya!”

“Well it’s true!” Arya protests. “He makes Maester Luwin put leeches on him every day. I’ve seen him.”

“You’ve  _ seen _ him?” Sansa asks, revolted.

“Well  _ yeah, _ I’d never seen someone get leeched before.”

Lyanna tries not to think about Roose Bolton covered in leeches. “Alright, I’m taking a bath; if you see him, tell him my brothers are getting his proof.”

“Yes, Aunt Lyanna.”

She goes up to her room with her ladies, who fill her bathtub and help her undress. She didn’t realize how badly she missed a hot bath until she gets in one; the hot water seeps into her bones, relaxing her until she nearly falls asleep. 

“What did I miss while I was gone?” she asks, eyes half-lidded.

“Very little, my queen,” Ros says, rinsing Lyanna’s hair. “Well, not  _ little _ , exactly... _ small _ is more like it.”

“What’s that now?”

Walda and Wynafryd burst into giggles. 

“Walda’s been, erm,  _ friendly _ with Smalljon Umber,” Wynafryd reports with a grin.

Lyanna grins too. “Smalljon, eh? And is he?”

“Is he what, Your Grace?”

“A small jon?”

The women cackle.

“Not at all, Your Grace,” Walda finally says, smirking. “I found him quite  _ great _ .”

“And are you going to make an honest man of the Smalljon?” Lyanna asks, half in jest but half serious. 

“If he offers. I like him, and his father, from what I know of him. I’m used to big families, only this one doesn’t seem to mind that I’m big, too.”

“The Umbers are good people,” Dacey says. “I’ve known them my whole life, and Smalljon’s one of my closest friends. You’d be happy at Last Hearth.”

_ If we even live out the Long Night. _

Lyanna closes her eyes again, resting her head on the rim of the tub. It will be alright. Even if Benjen doesn’t find a wight, the fact that so many Northern lords rode with Ned to free her seems promising. And they have the wildlings, and Dorne, and soon dragons as well.

_ If Jon and Daenerys ever come back. _

The last anyone heard, Daenerys had taken Slaver’s Bay. That is all very well, but until she takes a fleet of ships, she’s no closer to taking back the Iron Throne than before.

_ And my poor daughter will have to surrender it to her.  _ Poor, sweet Cass has dealt with enough, between her mother leaving and her father dying and everything else.  _ And now she’ll have to be the first queen in three hundred years to bend the knee, just like her ancestress Argella Durrandon.  _

Her heart aches for her little girl. Would she could hold her again and tell her it’s going to be alright. Would she could ease the burden from her small shoulders. What Lyanna wouldn’t give to make Cassie her little princess again, to watch her play all over the Red Keep and only pretend at wars instead of waging them. 

Soon the chatter of her ladies becomes too much, and weary as she is, she sends them away, all except for Ros. As soon as the other women are gone, Ros shimmies out of her dress and climbs into the tub with Lyanna, kissing her hungrily. 

“I missed you,” Ros murmurs, reaching down beneath the surface. Lyanna had not expected to feel aroused so quickly...but she supposes that if anyone can do it to her, it’s Ros. They pant and moan until they’ve both come, and then Ros sinks against her in the tub, arms around each other as the water cools. 

“Don’t get kidnapped by wildlings again,” Ros murmurs sleepily.

Lyanna’s lips curve into a smile. “I’ll try not to, but I make no promises.” She strokes Ros’s hip. “It’s getting cold.”

“Come to bed and I’ll warm you up.”

Lyanna huffs out a laugh. “So soon?”

“You’re getting old,” Ros teases as she stands up, water droplets sliding down that perfect ivory skin. 

Lyanna licks her lips. “On the contrary, you keep me younger than ever.”

They get out of the tub and slide into warm, dry clothes, and when Lyanna’s lying comfortably on the bed Ros has her again. Sated from her warm bath and the younger woman’s attentions, Lyanna soon drifts asleep, warm and comfortable and content.

.

A knock on the door startles her awake some time later. The fire is low and the tub is gone, so she knows she must have slept a while. The knock on the door comes again, and groaning, she sits up. None of her ladies are answering, but that’s alright; they’re young and pretty, and they should be allowed their fun. They’ve followed her all this way, she can’t begrudge them their own amusements while their queen sleeps.

She closes her robe before answering the door, surprised to see Roose Bolton standing on the other side. 

“Lord Bolton! This is an unexpected pleasure.”

His mouth makes something almost like a smile. “Forgive me, Your Grace; I hope I did not disturb you.”

“Only a little.” 

He bows his head. “Apologies, Your Grace, but I need to speak with you. It’s quite urgent.”

“Oh.” She steps back. “Come in, then.” She goes to the table and pours two cups of wine while he shuts the door. “What is this matter,” she starts to ask, turning.

Pain blossoms in her abdomen. It doesn’t quite register at first, but she sees the cold look in his eyes and feels a twist of pain before warmth fills her and--

“Oh,” she breathes, for there is a knife in her belly, and spreading all around it is a wine-red stain. 

Lyanna doubles over, or tries to, but Roose Bolton pushes her to the side and she falls over onto the hard stone floor. Darkness presses in at the edges of her vision, and every time she tries to move, more of her lifeblood spills out of her, the darkness pressing in with renewed vigor.

Roose Bolton stares down at her with ice-cold eyes.

_ No, _ she tries to say,  _ not you, bring Ros, bring Melisandre, bring Ned, bring Benjen, bring Jon or my little Cass, not you, don’t you be the one to watch me die. _

But instead of words, the only thing that comes out of her lips is blood, choking her, drowning her in its vile, coppery taste.

“Jon,” she whispers before all life is choked from her, and Lyanna Stark knows no more. 


	62. JON XIX

“Jon,” she whispers, blood trickling from her lips as all life leaves her. 

He sits up in a cold sweat, his heart pounding. A dull pain throbs in his belly, yet when he looks down, nothing is there. 

_ The dream,  _ he tells himself.  _ It was only a dream.  _

But was it? It had felt so  _ real _ . 

He gets out of bed, stiff-legged with sleep, and takes mincing steps to the basin of water. The pain in his belly ebbs as he splashes lukewarm water on his face and shoulders. 

A stab of something different twists in his heart.

_ Mother. _

The tidings had come from across the sea that she’d been exiled from court. That had been hard. Harder still was the news that Robert had died, and now Cassie rules the Seven Kingdoms.

_ My own sister will have to bend the knee, and gods know she’s always been stubborn. _

He wishes his mother was here now, to comfort and counsel him. To counsel him  _ and _ Dany. Counselors she has aplenty, yet she always seems in need of more.  _ She needs one who will urge her to go back to Westeros, not linger here in this city full of death. _

He’d thought it would end with crucifying the masters. He’d thought there would be peace, and ships, and they’d leave Slaver’s Bay and sail to Westeros.

But one thing after another keeps cropping up to keep them here. There had been unrest in Meereen, so they stayed. A former slave began enslaving boys in Astapor so they stayed. The masters of Yunkai overthrew the council of freedmen so they stayed. Now, it’s the Sons of the Harpy.

The secret society of assassins long for the old ways, and they have no love for the dragon queen come to take their slaves from them. They wear harpy masks of gold and bronze and kill freedmen.

The worst part is that none of them have been caught. They know this city well, better than Dany’s Unsullied, and when they strike, they strike hard and true. Men have been apprehended and questioned, but not a single one has been formally charged with the attacks. 

Not for lack of suspects. Jon is almost certain that the Sons of the Harpy are the sons of those who were crucified, the sons of the great houses who hide in their pyramids by day and kill men by night. But none of them will confess, and there is absolutely no proof. Even their wives and mothers defend them, providing alibis that not even the most rigorous inquisition can break. 

_ Perhaps they are telling the truth. _ The thought has occurred to Jon, once or twice. Yet if they are not responsible, who is? Who would kill freedmen but those who profited when they were slaves? Who would seek to kill those who follow the dragon queen but those whose fathers and brothers died when she took the city?

While Dany sits on her hard stone bench in her  _ tokar _ and crown and holds court with supplicant after supplicant, petition after petition, Jon, Oberyn, and Daario take the Stormcrows and Second Sons and patrol the city.

_ They _ are rarely attacked, he’s noticed. Which is not to say that the sellswords haven’t been targeted, but not nearly to the extent that the freedmen have.

_ The sellswords mean little to Dany when she has eight thousand Unsullied. The Sons of the Harpy know that, so they strike where it hurts her most. But if they knew how close Daario was to her, if they knew he was her lover, they would strike the Stormcrows just as hard as the freedmen. _

Jon has accepted his aunt’s lover with resignation. Though he’s an unbearable rogue, he seems to make her happy, and that’s the important thing. Gods know she needs some happiness in her life right now. 

It isn’t only the Sons of the Harpy that worry Dany. Her own children worry her, the dragons. They grow every day, and as their bodies grow, so do their appetites. Where a single sheep may have fed all three of them before, now they take to the pastures and kill whole flocks. Every day, shepherds bring their charred bones for Dany to see, begging for some recompense. The sheep are their livelihood, and they cannot keep sacrificing them for her dragons’ appetites. Dany offers gifts when she can, but there are days when her counselors send them away empty-handed. It simply can’t be helped—the dragons must eat.

When Jon isn’t trying to track down the members of the Sons of the Harpy, he spends time with the dragons, trying to train them so that the people will fear them less. They are smart creatures, and they respond to his commands for the most part, but they are still wild, and he gets bites, scratches, and burns more often than not. They don’t mean it, he knows, and it truthfully doesn’t bother him much...but if he, their mother’s kin, cannot keep them in check, who can?

_ Dany could, if she tried. But she cares more for politics these days than her dragons.  _

It’s an uncharitable thought, but there is some truth to it. When was the last time she spent an afternoon with her dragons? When was the last time she threw meat for them to burn, the last time she stroked their great big heads and called them her children?

_ I’ll talk to her,  _ he decides as he dresses for the day.  _ I’ll urge her to see the dragons again, and to conclude her business here. We must make west before there is no west to go to.  _

.

When he has dressed in his usual leather tunic, he goes to the council chamber to see his aunt. She is looking over a ledger with Missandei, and the smile she gives him is tired. 

“The Great Masters kept detailed records—nearly every brick in Meereen is reported here.” 

He grips the back of a chair, taking a deep breath. “May I speak with you?”

Her smile fades, but she nods and looks at Missandei. The Naathi scribe bows and leaves on silent slippered feet. 

“What is it?” Dany asks, gesturing for him to sit. He does, letting her take his hand in hers. “Tell me, Jon.”

He hesitates. “I had a dream,” he says at last, and somehow, he knows that was the wrong thing to start with. “I had a dream that my mother died.”

Dany’s face is sympathetic. “I’m sorry.”

“It felt...different from my other dreams. Realer.”

“Nightmares are like that.”

He hesitates again. “Dany...I want to go home.”

“I know,” she says soothingly. 

He shakes his head. “I mean, I want to go home  _ now.  _ I want to see my mother again. I want to put this stinking city full of harpies behind us.”

She sighs, sinking back in her chair. “I want that too, but now is not the right time.”

“It’s  _ never _ going to be the right time,” he says gently. “There’s always going to be something else, something to keep you here. The Sons of the Harpy, the dragons, the fleet, Daario Naharis.”

Her face hardens at this last one. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s the truth.”

“I can’t leave while the masters are still killing men, women, and children,” she points out. “If I leave now and take the Unsullied and the sellsword armies, who will protect the freedmen? Who still stop them from sliding back into their chains? Besides, the dragons aren’t grown yet, and the Meereenese navy isn’t enough to carry all of us back.”

“The dragons are big enough, and restless besides. Build a few more ships and leave the sellswords behind to keep the peace here until the Sons of the Harpy are dealt with and the freedmen can live in peace.”

“ _ No, _ ” she says firmly. “The freedmen call me  _ Mhysa, _ Mother. What sort of mother leaves her children when they need her most?”

“You were always going to leave.”

“When they were safe. They are not safe now.” She rises. “I can’t believe you would urge me to leave now, Jon, you who knows how dangerous the Sons of the Harpy really are.”

He bows his head. “I know. I know what they can do, I’ve seen it. But while you’re looking for a handful of murderers here, Westeros is about to face a whole army of them.”

“We are not  _ ready _ ,” she stresses again, but there’s something almost like worry on her face.

“What is it?” he asks, comprehension dawning. “What are you not telling me?”

She paces up and down in front of the window, wringing her hands. “A man came to me in court yesterday. A shepherd.”

“Another sheep eaten by the dragons, what of it?”

She shakes her head. “It wasn’t a sheep that was killed.” She looks at him, her eyes glassy. “It was a little girl.”

Jon’s stomach clenches. Oh.  _ Oh. _

“Which one?” he whispers.

“Drogon.”

Of course. The black dragon is the biggest of the three, and the one with the most voracious appetite. But even so, a  _ child… _

“I don’t know what to do,” she confesses, her voice thick. “Could it have been a mistake? Did he know it was a human child? Will he do it again?”

Jon swallows. “How old was she?”

“Three.”

He winces. “Perhaps...perhaps it was a mistake. Perhaps he did not see…”

“How could he not have?” Tears stream down Dany’s face. “He was raised by people, he’s seen children before, how could he not  _ know _ ?”

Jon rises, embracing his aunt. She buries her face in his chest, sobbing. 

“They’re dragons,” he says softly. “They have always hungered for flesh, be it man or sheep.”

“But little girls are not sheep.”

“No,” he agrees. “They’re not.” He saw Drogon only two days ago. Had that been the same day the dragon killed the little girl? Had he been dissatisfied with the horse Jon had brought him? Had he sought out something more after Jon left?

_ Am I to blame for this? _

“Perhaps it was a one-time mistake. Perhaps it won’t happen again.”

“But what if it does?”

“What if it doesn’t?”

They stand by the window for a long time, each trying not to voice their fears to the other. At long last, Dany murmurs, “Just find me the leader of the Sons of the Harpy. Find me their head so we can cut it off. If it’s human flesh Drogon has a taste for, he’ll get it when I find the man responsible for the murder of my children.”


	63. THEON VII

The closer they get to Riverrun, the farther away they have to stay from the towns and villages. They are well known around here, and it won’t do if they’re apprehended before they even make it to Riverrun. As such, they make camp in the forest and hunt for most of their meals.

The newcomer, Domeric, often spends his time with Theon and Robb, because they are of an age and all from the North. He’s friendly enough, but truth be told, something about him feels  _ off _ to Theon. He can’t explain it. Perhaps it’s only because the other lad is still a stranger. Perhaps it’s those eyes of his, so pale blue that they look almost like ice. Perhaps it’s nothing at all. Yet even Grey Wind seems to mislike the other man, growling if he gets too close.

“Dogs are like that,” Domeric dismisses when it happens over dinner one night, the wolf growling when he sits too close to Robb.

“He isn’t a dog, he’s a direwolf,” Robb corrects.

Domeric smiles, a strange, unnerving sort of smile. “Dogs were wolves, once. I raise them at home, you know. Dogs. Bitches, mostly. I name them after women I’ve had.”

Across the fire, Tom rolls his eyes. 

“I wonder that Grey Wind doesn’t seem to like you, then,” Thoros comments mildly. “If you raise dogs.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t like their smell. Hunting dogs must smell weak to such a great beast. In that, Grey Wind and I are kindred spirits. I loathe weakness, too.”

Now it’s Lem’s turn to roll his eyes. 

They take to their bedrolls not long after, Gendry taking the first watch as they succumb to full bellies and a warm fire. Theon has become so accustomed to sleeping in the outdoors by now that he falls into a deep sleep almost as soon as his head hits the bedroll.

He wakes an hour or so later, when something hits his face. He rolls over, cursing, and opens his eyes to see Domeric straddling Robb, his hands over the other man’s throat. It was Robb’s hand that hit Theon’s face, and though he uses one hand to try and pry the other man’s fingers off his throat, his other is still scrabbling in the grass, reaching for Theon.

With a shout, Theon vaults out of his bedroll and knocks over Domeric, bringing his fist down to meet the other man’s jaw. Domeric brings his own fist into Theon’s stomach, knocking the wind from him. He sags over, unable to move, and Domeric pushes out from under him easily. He unsheathes his dirk, aiming for Theon’s heart. He’s too weak to stop him, his movements faint and feeble, but just before the knife pierces his flesh, it’s suddenly wrenched to the side, and standing over them is Beric. He squeezes Domeric’s wrist, trying to wrest the blade from him. Domeric resists...and then suddenly drops it, using the other hand to catch the falling dirk and swing it up in an arc. He pierces Beric neatly in the gut, smiling that strange smile as the other man sways on his feet. 

“Thoros,” Beric says, lurching to the side.

Some of the other men wake as Beric crashes to the ground, and they cry out as they see the blood staining his tunic.

Domeric vaults to his feet, running faster than Theon’s ever seen him to the horses. He cuts the rope of one and swings into the saddle, urging the surprised mare into a gallop. Half the men run to their own horses, climbing into their saddles and giving chase. The other half surround Beric, Theon, and Robb. As Thoros brings Beric back to life, Tom and Lem look at the bruises on Robb’s throat (“I’m fine,” he rasps) and Anguy sits with Theon until he can breathe again. 

“What happened?” Lem asks once they’re all able to talk again.

“I woke up,” Robb rasps, “and he had his hands on my throat.”

“I felt Robb thrashing,” Theon agrees, “and when I looked over I saw Domeric trying to strangle him. I knocked him off, but he knocked the wind out of me. He tried to stab me when Beric stopped him, and he stabbed Beric instead.”

“Why didn’t Grey Wind stop him?” Thoros asks curiously.

Edric looks guilty. “He was with me. I’ve never been this far north, and I was cold. I...Domeric mentioned that he sleeps with his dogs when it’s cold, to keep him warm, and I thought it was a good idea, so I, erm, lured over Grey Wind with bits of jerky. I’m so sorry, Robb, if I’d known…”

“‘S alright,” Robb rasps.

“You couldn’t have known,” Beric agrees gently. “None of us had any reason to suspect.”

When the other men bring back Domeric, he’s banged up and bloody, one eye swollen shut. The other, however, widens when he sees Beric standing tall.

“You died,” he says, afraid.

“I did,” Beric agrees. “And you’ll get the same. But first, tell us why you were trying to kill Robb.”

Domeric only stares.

“Grey Wind,” Theon calls, and the direwolf moves forward with a growl.

Domeric looks at him with wide eye. “Call him off.”

“Tell us why you were trying to kill Robb.”

“My father! My father, my father, call him off!” 

“Grey Wind, to me,” Theon orders, and the direwolf sits on his haunches, staring mistrustfully at Domeric.

“Who is your father and why does he want Robb dead?” Beric presses.

Domeric stares back at the wolf, baleful. “My father is Roose Bolton.”

“Bolton?” Theon repeats, furrowing his brow. “He’s Ned Stark’s bannerman, why would he want his son dead?” Something else occurs to him. “He had a son named Domeric who died years ago.”

Domeric smiles. “He did.”

“Bolton’s bastard,” Robb rasps. “Ramsay...Snow.”

“Not Snow anymore,” says Ramsay. “Or not for long, anyway. My father’s the Lord of the Vale now, and that makes him the Warden of the East.”

“Robin Arryn is Lord of the Vale,” Lem says as if he talking to a child. “And Lady Arryn rules as his regent.”

“Not anymore.” Ramsay grins. “Oh, she did, up until she married my father. Then he had to go away on business, and do you know, my poor stepmother took a tumble out the Moon Door when he left. Robin Arryn has disappeared, which makes my father Lord of the Vale.”

Theon feels sick. “You  _ bastard _ .”

“That may be, but I am still the only child left of Roose Bolton, and he’ll not be pleased if I’m killed by Robb Stark and his little pet--or his direwolf.”

Theon reaches for his sword, but Lem stays his hand. “Why were you in the Riverlands?”

“I was on my way to Riverrun; I thought Robin might have gone there to shelter with his uncle. You see, Robb’s mother here is the reason my little stepbrother went missing; she absconded with the boy on my father’s wedding night. I headed for Riverrun and my father headed for Winterfell in case Lady Catelyn took the boy there. It was good fortune that brought me to Robb Stark.”

“And what was your plan, exactly? Kill Robin Arryn in front of Lady Stark?”

“Oh, of course not. We would’ve killed Lady Stark, too.”

Robb makes an angry noise, and Grey Wind lunges forward, jaws snapping in Ramsay’s face. He falls back comically, cowering from the wolf.

“Call him off, call him off!”

“Why should we?” Theon demands even as Grey Wind sinks his teeth into the bastard’s ankle, drawing an agonized scream from him. 

“Call him off and I’ll tell you!”

“No,” Theon says lazily. 

“My father will know!”

“Good,” Robb rasps. “I want him to know.”

“He’ll bring the Vale down on the North!”

“Let him try. Grey Wind,” Robb orders, “kill.”

The direwolf has never been trained to kill and likely doesn’t even know the word itself, but he understands the meaning behind Robb’s order well enough. His jaws leave Ramsay’s ankle, now torn and bloody, and before the Bolton bastard can crawl away, Grey Wind flips him over with one massive paw and tears out his throat. He makes a bloody mess of the man, but Theon cannot bring himself to feel any remorse for it. Ramsay had tried to kill him and Robb, he’d succeeded in killing Beric, and he would’ve killed Lady Catelyn and Robin if he’d had the chance. 

“Well,” Thoros comments placidly, “so much for our new companion.”

“If what he says is true, Lord Bolton may already be at Winterfell,” Theon says. 

Beric nods. “We’re only a few hours away from Riverrun; I say we press on. Mayhap Lady Catelyn and Lord Robin are there and safe; if not, we can send word to Winterfell.”

No one is able to sleep after the excitement anyway, so they pack up their camp and saddle the horses. Robb looks as troubled as Theon feels; what if Roose Bolton got to them before they reached Winterfell? What if he’s already killed Lady Catelyn, and little Robin? 

Theon says nothing of it, but he and Robb both ride at the head of the brotherhood, eager to reach Riverrun.

.

They reach the great sandstone castle early in the morning, the river catching the sun’s light and casting its reflection on the walls. They ride up to the moat, where the porter shouts for them to state their business.

“This is Robb Stark of Winterfell,” Theon calls since Robb’s voice is shot. “Nephew to Lord Tully. You’ll know him by the direwolf.”

The porter hesitates. “And the others?”

“His sworn companions.”

The porter confers with someone else before the drawbridge lowers. The brotherhood ride across and into the courtyard. 

Grooms take the horses, and the steward is telling them that Lord Edmure is still abed but they would be welcome to wait in the hall when a voice cries out, “ _ Robb!” _

Two redheaded blurs zoom out from inside the keep. Theon starts, but when he sees two wolves behind them, one silver-grey and the other black, he relaxes, even chuckling when Bran and Rickon throw themselves at Robb. Robb bends down to hug them both, smiling as excited babbling cascades from their lips. 

“Robb!” another voice cries, and when they look up, they see Lady Catelyn running towards them. Robb stands quickly, catching his mother and burying his face in her shoulder. She sobs with relief, clutching her son to her. It’s a long moment before she pulls back, wiping the tears from her eyes. “Where have you been?!”

“With us, my lady,” Beric says, bowing.

She looks at him with surprise. “Lord Beric?”

“The very same...though with one less eye,” he says ruefully. 

“These men kept us safe,” Robb tells his mother.

She frowns. “What’s wrong with your voice? Your...your neck!”

“A long tale, Lady Stark,” Theon tells her. “And one you ought to be sitting down to hear.”

.

Over bread and ale, the brotherhood tell the Starks and Tullys all that has transpired since they joined up. Lord Edmure is furious to realize that his own nephew is part of the brigands that have been troubling him for so long, Bran and Rickon are in awe of their elder brother, and Brynden Blackfish Tully cannot stop laughing at the look on Edmure’s face. Lady Catelyn, however, is visibly troubled.

“I assumed Lord Bolton would head north, which is why I brought Robin here,” she muses. “But Lord Bolton will not know that until he reaches Winterfell, and who knows what he’ll tell Ned.” She rubs her forehead. “My poor sister. I knew what was coming, yet I could not stop it.”

“You could not have saved both her and Robin,” the Blackfish soothes her. “You could not have saved her at all; she was determined to wed Bolton.”

“We must write to Ned at once,” she says. “To tell him what Lord Bolton has done and urge him to hold him as a prisoner. When we have returned to Winterfell, we can put him to a trial.”

“What about the Vale?” Robb asks. 

She has a look of grim satisfaction. “We need not fear the Vale. None of them approved of Lysa’s marriage, and if what Ramsay told you is true, they will almost certainly suspect the truth. The Royces and Waynwoods are our allies, and friends of your father’s; they helped me escape with Robin and clearly refused to tell the Boltons where we’d gone. They will not answer Roose Bolton’s call, I guarantee it.”

That is a relief, though the feeling is short-lived; the maester soon enters with an uneasy look.

“Lady Stark,” he murmurs, handing her a raven’s scroll. “A letter from your daughter Sansa. It was meant for Lord Edmure, but I do not think she knew of your presence here…”

Lady Catelyn takes it curiously, unfurling the scroll...and dropping her mouth as she reads the contents. 

“What is it?” Bran urges.

She closes her mouth, swallowing. “Your aunt Lyanna...was found murdered in her room.”

“ _ What _ ?” Theon and several others exclaim.

She reads the scroll again, brow furrowed. “Ned is at the Wall, dealing with  _ wildlings? _ And Sansa writes that they do not know who killed her. She’s terrified, look, her hand shook as she wrote.” 

Theon and Robb exchange looks.

“My lady,” Theon begins, speaking for both of them. “Is it not suspicious that Roose Bolton went north...and now Queen Lyanna is dead?”

Lady Catelyn looks between the two of them. “You think it was Roose Bolton?”

“Who else?” Lord Edmure asks, eyes wide. “Cat, the man killed our own sister and meant to kill her son, he meant to kill  _ you _ ; why not Lyanna Stark? While your husband called the banners, Roose Bolton rode south and wooed Lysa. He has no love for House Stark, that much is clear.”

Lady Catelyn’s mouth sets in a hard line. “You have the right of it. He may still be there...and if Ned is at the Wall, that means the only Starks in Winterfell are the girls.” She rises suddenly. “We must leave, at once. I don’t want him hurting the girls.”

Lord Edmure grabs her wrist before she can leave. “Cat,  _ wait. _ If your husband is at the Wall dealing with wildlings, he likely has most of his bannermen with him. That means Winterfell is vulnerable to an attack should Bolton muster his men. Give me three days to muster my own men; I would feel better if you rode back to Winterfell with an army.”

“Do as he says,” the Blackfish urges. “You’ll do no one any good if you ride out now with fifty men. Wait a few days and Edmure can marshal several thousand.”

Lady Catelyn hesitates. “I suppose...but the girls…”

“We will ride with you and offer our protection,” Beric says gently. “But that will do little good if Roose Bolton musters all of the Bolton men--and if he has allies, as I suspect he does given the confidence with which he embarked on this scheme, there will be even more men.”

Lady Catelyn relents at this. “You have the right of it. Very well, I will wait until an army can be mustered--and in the meantime, I will pray the girls can hold out that long.”


	64. CATELYN VI

Catelyn gives her brother three days, and as promised, he delivers up several thousand men for her. There will be more, he promises, and he’ll send them north straightaway.

Thus armed and ready, Catelyn heads for the Kingsroad with her sons, their wolves, Theon Greyjoy, the Brotherhood Without Banners, and nine thousand Tully men. 

_ I’m coming, girls. Hold on for just a little longer. _

.

The River Road converges into the Kingsroad at the aptly named Crossroads Inn. They stop here for the night, the men making camp outside while Catelyn chooses to sleep in the inn proper. Her sons all prefer to stay in camp, wanting to feel like real soldiers, but Bran and Robb have both offered to let Summer and Grey Wind stay with her. She would like that, and would feel safer with one of the wolves guarding her in her sleep. She’d be safer in camp, she knows, but she longs for a featherbed surrounded by sturdy walls, not a pallet of furs shielded only by canvas. 

Her sons  _ do _ agree to join her for dinner inside the inn, where Masha Heddle, that red-smiled woman Catelyn remembers from her girlhood, waits on her personally. She seats Catelyn at a table by the window, away from the clamor, and leaves her to sip her mulled wine until the boys join her.

“Lady Stark, is it?”

She looks to her side and sees a dwarf with golden hair and mismatched eyes. She softens her face so as not to give offense for her staring. “I am; forgive me, have we met?”

“We have not.” He smiles sardonically. “I would have remembered. And no doubt you would have remembered a face such as mine.” 

She inclines her head. “No doubt.”

“I heard the innkeep. That, and I saw the army outside.” He jerks his head to the window, where there is indeed a whole army of Tully men. 

“They are hard to miss.”

“That they are. May I ask why you’re bringing an army north, my lady?”

She hesitates. “There is...trouble at home, I am afraid.”

“Regarding the queen?”

“Regarding the queen,” she agrees. 

He smiles. “And that’s all you’ll tell me.”

She sips deeply from her cup.

He moves to the bench across from her, uninvited...but what is she supposed to do? Ask him to leave?

“I’m headed north myself,” he says, helping himself to the wine pitcher before her. “To visit my brother on the Wall. And then, I’d had some thought of paying a visit to Winterfell, and offering my service to Queen Lyanna--such as it is.”

Her breath catches. “Oh...I am afraid that cannot be.”

He furrows his brow. “Why not?”

She takes a deep breath, so full of sorrow for this stranger and for herself. “Queen Lyanna...is dead.”

He stares at her for a long moment. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I was. My daughter wrote only a few days ago. My husband is at Castle Black dealing with wildlings and most of his bannermen are with him. Lyanna was killed in her room and no one knows who did it...though I have my suspicions. The army I bring is to defend Winterfell.”

The dwarf stares into his cup. “I see.”

Spurred by sympathy, she reaches across the table to touch his hand. “Forgive me, but I do not even know your name.”

He looks up at her with those mismatched eyes, his mouth twisted in irony. “I, my lady, have the great misfortune to be Tyrion Lannister.”

She withdraws her hand as if scalded. “ _ Lannister _ ?”

“Lannister,” he echoes, drinking deep.

“The brother you mean to visit is the Kingslayer.”

“He doesn’t like that name...but yes.”

Catelyn stares at him. “Was that a jape, about offering your service to Queen Lyanna?”

His eyes flash, the smile gone. “I jape about many things, my lady, but never that. I have the highest respect for Queen Lyanna; she is--she  _ was _ \--a better friend to me than most.”

Catelyn purses her lips. “But you’re a  _ Lannister _ .”

“Tell that to my father.” He drinks deeply, pouring himself another cup. “I have just come from Casterly Rock, where my disgraced sister has taken refuge after that scandalous trial and subsequent annulment of her marriage. My brother Jaime was sent to the Night’s Watch, and I made the mistake of asking my father if this meant he would finally acknowledge me as his heir. He never has, you see; some part of him was always holding onto hope that Jaime would desert the Kingsguard and take his place as Lord of Casterly Rock someday. If not him, then Cersei’s children, but now that Jaime has taken the black and it’s been revealed that Cersei’s children are bastards, well, how could he deny me?” His lips twist in another ironic smile. “He somehow found a way, and told me that he only acknowledged me as his son because he had never been able to prove I wasn’t.”

Catelyn stares at him in shock. She’s always known Tywin Lannister was a vile man, but this? Even for a Lannister, that’s low.

“So you see, Lady Stark, I am not feeling at all sympathetic towards my  _ family _ at the moment,” Tyrion Lannister continues. “And if my father will not accept me, I had thought at least Queen Lyanna might. But if she’s dead...well, where does that leave me?”

Catelyn feels a pang of pity for this man. To be ostracized by his own family, to be left with no other choice... “You are always welcome in Winterfell, Lord Tyrion. Share the road with me; it is a long journey to Winterfell, and I would be glad of the company...as my sons seem to prefer the conversation of soldiers to that of their mother. Visit your brother, by all means, but if you seek a place to stay when you return from your visit, know that you will always be welcome at Winterfell.”

Lord Tyrion considers her for a moment before raising his cup. “To Winterfell.”

She raises her cup also. “To Winterfell.”

.

They ride hard for Winterfell. The journey from the Crossroads Inn takes nearly two weeks, and she spends most of those two weeks, oddly, in the company of Lord Tyrion. She’s missed her sons, and she still spends a good deal of her time with them, but they are more interested in war and the Brotherhood Without Banners, and Lord Tyrion is more courteous and thoughtful than she’d thought a Lannister could be. His one flaw seems to be his inability to stop sounding clever, but it’s easily forgiven when he is able to so easily distract Catelyn from whatever waits for her in the North.

“Tell me true, my lady,” he says as they ride together, “what is all this about Lyanna having a Targaryen son?”

“For once, the rumors are true,” she says wryly. “Rhaegar wed Lyanna in a...sham ceremony. He kept saying that the dragon has three heads; he wanted a third trueborn Targaryen child, and Elia Martell could not have anymore children. But even Lyanna refused to believe the marriage was valid; no septon would have approved of it. I suppose it was more the intent behind the ceremony than anything.” She sighs. “Anyway, she gave birth to a son after Rhaegar died, just in time for Ned to find her. He offered to raise the child as his own bastard so that Lyanna could marry Robert. I don’t know if she ever planned to tell him the truth, until Melisandre came along.”

“Melisandre?”

“The red priestess who was her constant companion. She believes in this...Azor Ahai. The Last Hero reborn who will save us from the second Long Night and bring about a new dawn. At first, she believed it was Viserys Targaryen, so she told Jon the truth and sent him east to find his Targaryen kin, that they might become the three heads of the dragon, retake the Seven Kingdoms, and lead us into the new Dawn Age. But Viserys died, and Daenerys walked into her husband’s funeral pyre while the flames were rising, and walked out with three dragons hatched from stone. Jon believes she is Azor Ahai reborn, and Lyanna and Melisandre believed the same.” She closes her eyes. “Gods, but Jon does not even know his own mother is dead.”

“So Daenerys Targaryen...she is the one to lead us against the darkness? She and her dragons?”

“That is what they believe.”

“And you believe that...what, the white walkers will come again?”

“I know how it sounds,” she admits. “I was skeptical at first. I still am, truth be told; I cannot imagine that such creatures could be  _ real _ . But my good-sister was not a fool, even if she could be a bit...rash. If she believed the white walkers are real and coming for us, then I believe her.”

“Lyanna was not a fool,” Lord Tyrion agrees. “Rash, yes. Fanciful, yes. But a fool she was not. She would not have gone to such great lengths for something she was not wholly sure of.” He glances over at Catelyn, a wry smile on his face. “I must say, Lady Stark, you are one of the most surprising women I’ve ever met.”

“Me?” she asks, feeling as though she is the surprised one.

“Yes. You rode to convince your sister to join your cause, you kidnapped her son for his protection, and now you lead an army north to avenge your good-sister.”

“I must do what duty requires.”

“Family, Duty, Honor. Those are the Tully words, aren’t they? Yet what man is half as dutiful to his family as you, Lady Stark?”

She holds her head high. “All women are dutiful to their families, Lord Tyrion. Just because they do not swing swords does not mean they are not just as willing to make sacrifices to see their children and spouses kept safe.”

He dips his head. “You’re right, Lady Stark. As in all things.”

She smiles. “Your silver tongue will get you into trouble someday, Lord Tyrion.”

“It already has; my tongue is silver, as you have said, yet my family is famous for their gold. What use is a silver tongue when you are surrounded by golden lions?”

“I thought all you Lannisters were supposed to be clever.”

“No one is cleverer than me,” Lord Tyrion asserts, and though he says it with a light and merry tone, Catelyn senses that he is not jesting. 

_ He’s probably right. His brother always had more brawn than brains, and Cersei was found out as soon as she tried to poison Cassie and Stannis. Tywin has favored the wrong children for too long, it seems. What a formidable enemy Tyrion Lannister would have made had Tywin ever decided to forgive him the crime of being born a dwarf. _

.

They are almost a day’s ride from Winterfell when scouts ride back and tell them good and bad news.

The good news is that an army of Mormont, Manderly, and Umber men seems to be gathered at Winterfell.

The bad news is that an army of Bolton, Karstark, Ryswell, and Dustin men is marching on them.

“We can reach Winterfell tomorrow if we ride hard,” Catelyn says sharply. “The battle may have already begun, but if we can come in from the rear…”

“We can crush the Boltons from behind,” Robb finishes for her. “But if we miss the battle?”

She bows her head. “Then we’ll just have to pray the loyalists win the day.”

.

They ride hard the rest of that day and the next morning. It’s high noon by the time they reach Winterfell, where they happen upon Bolton, Karstark, Dustin, and Ryswell forces assaulting the keep. They have not yet breached the walls, but there is fighting on the ramparts, and the army surrounds Winterfell in an impervious ring. 

Uncle Brynden commands the Tully forces; Catelyn, Bran, Rickon, and Lord Tyrion ride up the slope of a hill and watch as the mounted men thunder forward forward, spears tipped and ready. The Bolton forces scramble to form up against them, but it is too little too late; the infantry that are not trampled fall back until infantry and cavalry alike are pressed up against the walls. They advance, but this is a perilous mistake; as soon as they have moved forward, the gates of Winterfell open and the allied forces of Stark, Mormont, Manderly, Umber, and wildlings pour out of the gate, attacking the Boltons from behind. 

Catelyn grips the reins, fearing for Robb and praying that his Brotherhood Without Banners will protect him. She watches as first Karstark men, then Dustin, then Ryswell, and finally Bolton men throw down their swords and yield. Cheers go up from the Stark and Tully forces, and Catelyn nearly weeps with relief when Robb himself rides up the slope, face flushed with victory.

“Winterfell is ours!” he declares. “Bolton and Karstark had command of the forces; Dustin died, as did one of the Ryswell boys; the other two are nowhere to be found, and their father waits at the Rills. Uncle Brynden says you ought to come and accept the surrender.”

“Then I shall.” She follows Robb down the slope of the hill, Bran, Rickon, and Tyrion behind her. The Tully men part to let them through, revealing Roose Bolton, Arnolf Karstark, and Roger Ryswell mounted but surrounded by swords. They are so close to the keep that Catelyn can see the individual faces peering down at her. She tears her eyes from the ramparts and looks at the traitors.

“Lord Bolton, Lord Karstark, Ser Roger,” she says coldly. “What is the cause for this?”

“Lady Stark,” Roose Bolton greets, a touch more warmly. “What an unexpected pleasure to see you again so soon.”

“I have not the patience to exchange false courtesies with you, ser. You attacked my home.”

It’s Karstark who spits on the ground. “You lost the right to call it your home when your husband rode north to let wildlings through the Wall and left two little girls in charge. He traded the whole North for his whore sister, and I’m not about to let wildlings into my land because the Stark bitch made friends with them.”

Catelyn has no idea what to make of this. “My husband is your liege lord, and you owe him your fealty.”

“Not anymore I don’t.”

“That is treason.” She turns to Roose Bolton. “Lord Bolton, when last I saw you, you were marrying my sister, and now I hear she is dead.”

“A terrible accident,” he says without a flicker of emotion. “I am told she fell through the Moon Door in a bout of madness.”

His lie incenses her. “Your son killed her.”

“Ramsay?” He cocks his head. “Why would he ever do such a thing? In any case, he couldn’t have. As soon as you and my new stepson went missing, I sent him to the Riverlands to find you.”

“Aye, and he found me instead,” Robb growls. “He sang like a bird when we caught him, and squealed like a stuck pig when we killed him.”

Roose Bolton freezes in his saddle. “Killed him?”

“Well, I say  _ we _ , but in truth, it was my wolf. Ramsay tried to kill me in my sleep, you see, and Grey Wind...he’s very protective.”

Roose Bolton swallows. “I see.”

“Lysa. Lyanna. Robin. Robb,” Catelyn says, quiet but full of fury. “How many more were you planning to kill, Lord Bolton? What did Tywin Lannister promise you? Wardenship of the North? Legitimizing your bastard?”

“I made no bargains with Tywin Lannister,” Roose Bolton insists. 

“Really?” Tyrion asks, urging his horse to saunter forward. “That’s strange, because I seem to recall my father having been in  _ constant _ communication with you about taking out the Starks, root and stem.”

Before Roose Bolton can hope to defend himself--or worse, try and make a run for it--the south gate opens, and Catelyn feels her heart stop.

For standing there, flanked by Dacey Mormont and the red priestess Melisandre, is Lyanna Stark, very much alive. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, bitch, I bet you thought you'd seen the last of her


	65. NED VII

Jeor Mormont sends word to the Shadow Tower and Eastwatch-by-the-Sea to let all wildlings pass through the Wall unmolested. Most of them are with Mance already, but a few of the smaller villages, especially those along the coasts, are reluctant to leave. Mance sends men and spearwives to reason with them. 

“The most stubborn will be Hardhome,” he says, and the other wildlings hum in agreement.

“Hardhome?” Ned asks, unfamiliar with the name.

Mormont shows him on a map. It’s on the tip of something called Storrold’s Point, on the coast of the Shivering Sea. “Wildling village. It was attacked by slavers some six hundred years ago, and burned to ash by the survivors. The wildlings--”

“The free folk,” corrects Mance’s lieutenant, a redheaded man with one of the bushiest beards Ned has ever seen named Tormund Giantsbane. 

Mormont bows his head. “The free folk have only recently settled it again.”

“They were driven out of their villages by the Army of the Dead,” Mance explains. “Many of them lived far in the north, and swore never to move further south. They mistrust southerners; they would not even join the march. They fear to leave their homes and their lands and live surrounded by people who want them dead.” 

“And they fear the Army of the Dead less?” Ned asks in disbelief.

“They’re stubborn,” Mance says again. “They’ll need someone to talk them into leaving.” He tilts his head. “Someone strong. Noble. Lordly, even.”

“Are you suggesting Lord Stark go?” the Greatjon rumbles.

“Why not?”

“Seems to me a man’s word is only as good as his actions,” Tormund Giantsbane agrees.

“He’s the Warden of the North--”

“Then who better to see it done?”

Lord Cerwyn opens his mouth to argue, but Ned shakes his head. “They’re right. Why should the free folk come to us if we won’t go to them?”

Robett Glover frowns. “This is not wise, my lord.”

“The free folk mean us no harm,” Ned says, but even he is uncertain. “Even so, I will bring men with me.”

“And me,” Tormund says, surprising him. “You need someone who knows these people. I know everyone, and everyone knows me. Everyone  _ likes _ me. They’ll listen to you if I’m there.”

Ned bows his head. “Thank you.”

As they leave, Ned distinctly hears the Greatjon muttering, “These bloody Starks will be the end of me.”

.

In the morning, Ned leaves with two hundred of his men and fifty wildlings, including Tormund Giantsbane. The Greatjon, at first unhappy at having to go beyond the Wall  _ again _ , quickly comes around when he realizes how much he and Tormund are alike. The two men spend most of the journey to Eastwatch swapping tall tales and singing songs about giants. Tormund claims that he once killed a giant and fucked a bear while the Greatjon claims he’s killed a bear and someone in his family  _ must _ have fucked a giant. The two men roar with laughter, bringing a smile even to Ned’s face. 

Cotter Pyke, the Commander of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, welcomes them with courtesy, if not confusion. 

“If they don’t want to go, why bother?” he asks as he feasts them over freshly caught crab.

“The Night’s Watch swears an oath to protect the realms of men,” Ned reminds him. “The free folk are men, and just as deserving of our protection as men born south of the Wall.”

Cotter Pyke hesitates. “It’s only...begging your pardon, my lord, but have you ever faced these creatures? These wights?”

“I cannot say that I have,” Ned admits.

“My men have. Lord Commander Mormont ordered as many men as I could spare to the Fist of the First Men on the biggest ranging the Night’s Watch has undertaken in hundreds of years. Less than a third of the men I sent returned to Eastwatch, and those that did were mute with terror. Only a handful ever told me what they saw.” He leans forward. “These are not just twitching corpses, Lord Stark. These are monsters that feel no pain and give no quarter. They are faster and stronger than any man, and they seek only to kill. If you should run into the wights, there is small chance you will live to tell the tale.”

Ned feels a shiver run down his spine, but tries to hide it from the other men. “I bring two hundred of my men and fifty of the free folk and will be taking ten of your ships. I think we’ll be alright.”

Cotter Pyke bows his head. “As you say, my lord...but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

.

They set out from Eastwatch with ten ships. They sail into the night and into the next morning, and reach Storrold’s Point a little before noon. Rowboats take them ashore to the village, where hundreds of wildlings line the shore, watching the boats come towards them. Like most of the wildlings Ned has encountered, they wear a motley collection of furs, but as they get closer, Ned notices that theirs are mostly white and grey.

“Sealskin,” Tormund tells him. “Keeps them warm and dry. Most of the people here are fishers, and they must needs go out onto the water.”

Men and women stare at them with hard eyes as they climb out of their boats and onto the black pebbled shore. Tormund stands beside Ned, leaning in and muttering, “You trust me, Ned Stark?”

Oddly, Ned does. “Aye. Does that make me a fool?” 

“We’re fools together now.” Tormund walks forward, Ned staying close behind him. The wildlings part for them, almost as if afraid of touching them...though that may be because of Ghost, who is almost as big as a man now. Someone whistles, and a woman strolls forward to meet them, beautiful and fierce. 

“Tormund, is that you?” she asks in an accent Ned has never heard before.

“Karsi,” he greets warmly, holding out his arms for a hug that she does not return. “Been a long time.”

“It has,” she agrees, eyes flickering to Ned and Ghost. “What have you brought to my shores?”

“This is Ned Stark, the Lord of Winterfell,” Tormund tells her. “These are his men, and some of Mance’s. We should gather the elders, find someplace quiet to talk.”

She considers him. “I heard the crows let Mance and his army through the Wall.”

“They did, because Ned Stark commanded it.”

She looks at Ned with renewed interest. “You? Commanded the crows to let the free folk through the Wall?”

“I did,” Ned says humbly. “I have set aside land in the North for all the free folk to live on and work.”

She eyes him, suspicious. “Why? What do you ask in return?”

“Nothing. I did it because it was the right thing to do.”

She glances at Tormund again, and then nods. “Right. This way.” She leads them up the muddy slope to a crude longhall, the roof opening up above a fire. Even the Liddles and the Flints have hardier structures than this, and Ned feels, not for the first time, deep shame at the thought of how poorly the free folk have lived. Eight thousand years, and this is all they have to show for it? If they ever survive this war, he’ll make amends for it. He’ll see that they have proper keeps made of brick and stone, not these fragile wooden things.

While the elders are summoned, Karsi offers them a fermented milk that makes Ned choke and hard bread and cheese, which lack flavor but are otherwise a sweet relief compared to the milk. As he eats, he notices the elders entering the hall. Most are men and women who could pass for any man or woman of the North, but he sees a few with ritually scarred faces--those, he knows from Mance, are Thenns, and these scars are sacred. Others have white paint over their faces, running down in a diagonal slant. There is also a giant, and while Ned saw a fair number of giants pass through the Wall, the sight of one still never fails to awe him. The Umbers claim to be descended from giants, but how could any person mate with something so big?

When all the elders have gathered, Tormund nods at Ned, who comes forward to address them all.

“My name is Ned Stark,” he tells them. “I’m the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. We’re not friends. We’ve never been friends. We won’t become friends today. This isn’t about friendship. This is about survival. This is about putting a seven hundred foot wall between you and what’s out there.”

“ _ You _ built that wall to keep us out,” Karsi points out, arms folded over her chest. 

“Since when do you southerners give two shits if we live?” a Thenn growls.

Ned bows his head. “We did not before, I will grant you that. We saw you as a threat because we did not know what the real threat was. The Others don’t care on which side of the Wall a man was born. We’re all the same to them, meat for their army. But together, we can beat them.”

“Beat the Others?” Karsi asks with a snide smile. “Good luck with that. Run from them, maybe.”

Ned comes forward holding the bag the steward Samwell Tarly had given him. The free folk all tense up as he approaches Karsi; he moves slowly and deliberately, handing her the bag. “It’s not a trick.”

She reaches into the bag, pulling out the obsidian arrowheads and daggers Samwell Tarly found at the Fist of the First Men. 

“Dragonglass,” Ned explains to the room. “A man of the Night’s Watch used one of these daggers to kill a white walker.”

“You saw this?” a bearded elder asks skeptically.

“No,” Ned admits. “But I trust the man.”

“There are old stories about dragonglass,” Karsi says in reluctant agreement. 

“There are old stories about ice spiders as big as hounds,” the Thenn points out.

“And with the things we’ve seen, you don’t believe them?”

“Come with me and I’ll share these weapons,” Ned urges.

The Thenn narrows his eyes. “Come with you where?”

“There are good lands south of the Wall. The Night’s Watch will let you through just as they let Mance’s army through. We all want the same thing: to live. If you stay here, there’s no guarantee of that. If you come with me, you’ll have my protection, and the protection of the Wall.”

“ _ If _ ?” Karsi presses, and Ned has to admire her tenacity.

“There’s no if. None of you should be left to face the Others on your own. Let us take you south of the Wall so you don’t have to.” He looks into the flames for a moment. “I have children. Many of you do as well, I’m sure. I would give anything to be with them again...but I’m here now because I want you to think of  _ your _ children. They’ll never grow to be men and women if you don’t take them south. They’ll never have children of their own. The Long Night is coming and the dead come with it.”

There is a long pause as the free folk consider. Finally, Karsi asks, “You vouch for this man, Tormund?”

Tormund looks at him, nodding. “He’s a good man, and true to his word...even if he is a southerner. He has nothing to gain and everything to lose from being here. It’s like he said: he’d rather be with his children. But he’s here today, telling you to save yours.”

There’s another long pause before the Thenn speaks up. “My ancestors would spit on me if I broke bread with a southerner.”

“So would mine, but fuck ‘em; they’re dead,” Karsi says bluntly. She comes forward, looking Ned up and down. “I’ll never trust a southerner.” She turns to Tormund, pointing. “But I trust you, Tormund. If you say this is the way, we’re with you.”

Tormund looks out at all of them. “This is the way.”

“I’m with Tormund,” the bearded elder agrees. “We stay here, we’re dead men. At least with Ned Stark, there’s a chance.”

The others murmur, nodding their heads.

The giant in the corner makes a rumbling sort of sound before pronouncing with great difficult, “Tor-mund.”

The Thenn does not join the other elders. “Keep that new life you want to give us. And keep your glass.” He turns to the others. “As soon as you get on his ships, they’re gonna slit your throats and dump your bodies to the bottom of the Shivering Sea. That’s our enemy. That has always been our enemy.” He leads his fellow Thenns and some of the others out of the hall, the wind whistling in behind them.

As soon as they are gone, Karsi turns to Tormund. “I fucking hate Thenns.”

.

Only half of the village agrees to go. Ned’s men row them to the ships, but because there are only so many boats and they can only hold so many, it is a long and arduous process.

“We’re leaving too many behind,” Ned worries as he looks at the bystanders, arms folded over their chests as they watch the others leave.

“The free folk are stubborn,” Tormund tells him. “You know how long it took Mance to band them together? Twenty fucking years.”

“And he knew them better than you ever will,” the Greatjon says unhelpfully.

“They’re running out of food and there’s nothing to hunt,” Tormund says, firm but reassuring. “They’ll come around.” He goes off to help more people into the boats.

At the end of the dock, Ned watches Karsi load two little girls into a boat, one with dark hair and one with red.  _ They may as well be Sansa and Arya. _ His heart aches at the thought, and before he can stop himself, he crosses over to her, stopping the man about to push off.

“You should go with them,” he says.

Karsi gives him an annoyed look. “Why?”

“They are your children, you should be together. What if you get put on a different ship?”

Karsi hesitates. “The others will look after them.”

“We’re nearly done,” he reminds her. “Since your Thenn friend has persuaded half the village to stay here.”

“Thenns are like that.”

“If you say so.” Ned glances at the little girls, who look up at him with wide eyes. “They remind me of my daughters. I’d give anything to see them again.”

Karsi hesitates again...and then sighs. “Don’t get soft on me, southerner.” She climbs into the boat, tucking a girl under each arm. Ned watches as they shove off, the two girls leaning happily into their mother. 

_ When I get back to Winterfell, I’m going to wrap my arms around Sansa and Arya and not let go. _

He’s pulled from his reverie by the frantic barking of dogs. He realizes that Ghost is not with him, and when he looks around, he sees the white wolf with the dogs, all of them facing the village walls as they bark. Slowly, the villagers look up to the mountain that stands over the village, a cloud of snowy fog descending on it. It rolls down the slope of the mountain, coming towards the village, and someone begins shouting. Men run forward to shut and bar the gates, the air panicked and frenzied as the fog comes closer. Some free folk are left on the other side, shouting and screaming as they beg to be let in.

Very suddenly, the screaming and banging on the gates stops, silence descending with the swirl of fog. 

Just as suddenly, the screaming and banging begins anew, only this time it’s different. The screaming is shrill and unearthly, and the hands banging on the wood turn into a fierce rattling from the hinges. Archers draw and nock, letting their arrows fly as dark, rotted hands pierce through the wood.

“Is that…?” Ned asks, cold with fear.

“Aye,” Tormund rumbles. “That’s them. The dead.”

The shoreline becomes a panic as people pile into the boats with renewed vigor. Some are so desperate that they bypass the boats completely, choosing instead to wade into the water and swim towards the ships. Ned, Tormund, and the Greatjon try to restore order, urging the free folk not to panic, but they may as well tell the tide to stop rising. Skeletal creatures climb over the gate, leaping onto roofs and people alike. Ned watches in horror as they move with an unearthly speed and agility. Arrows fly and swords swing, but nothing stops the dead creatures from coming.

“We should form a line!” the Greatjon bellows, but Tormund shakes his head.

“If the fuckers get through, we’re dead! We have to stop them!”

Ned knows he speaks the truth. He draws his greatsword, Ice, and shouts, “My men, with me now!” He wades towards the fighting, his men swarming behind him as they draw their own weapons. Someone else will have to see order restored to the evacuation; there won’t be any order, or any survivors to see it restored, if the wights aren’t stopped first.

The gate is little more than splinters by now, with so many dead having clawed their way through its wood. Some crawl over the gate, some crawl under, and some manage to take down the living while the others are preoccupied. Even those with plain wooden arrows through their eyes do not stop, fighting to dig their bony fingers in human flesh. 

Ned swings his word instinctively as one approaches, cutting through the dead man with more ease than he thought.  _ They have been dead so long there is hardly anything left to cut. _ He lets the momentum of the swing propel him forward, cutting his way to the gate. There’s a large gap where wight after wight has climbed through, all dead and rotted save for their ice-blue eyes, and Ned uses his own Ice to hold them back while Tormund, the Greatjon, and Robett Glover grab a sleigh and run forward, using it to staunch the flow of wights.

The fog from the mountaintop clears, and when Ned looks up, he sees four riders sitting atop it, still and silent. He knows instinctively that these are not men, and their horses not living.  _ The Others, _ he realizes with a chill, the white walkers that have the ability to turn dead men into undead creatures. 

His gaze takes him towards the longhall, where wights are crawling up the roof.  _ We left the dragonglass in there, _ he remembers, and says as much to the others.

“You and me, then!” the Thenn shouts, surprising but relieving him. The two men cut their way through the melee towards the longhall, the old movements coming back like second nature to Ned.  _ War never leaves you, being a soldier never leaves you, no matter who the enemy may be. _

The longhall erupts as the giant from before bursts out of it, two wights on his back; he throws them off as a horse flicks flies from its tail and stomps on another running past. Ned and the Thenn make for the hall, aflame from what must have been more fighting. Movement at the far end of the hall catches Ned’s eye, and as the smoke clears, he sees it.

A white walker.

He knows it must be. The man--if he can be called that--he sees before him has skin and hair as white as snow and eyes an even icier blue than the wights. He wears a studded jerkin, and slung over his back is a great weapon that Ned has never seen before. 

“Get the glass,” the Thenn says, hefting his axe.

Ned doesn’t need to be told twice; he scurries forward to find the bag while the Thenn takes on the white walker. Ned hears the grunting and shouting of the Thenn as he fights the white walker, but he hardly pays attention as he rummages through overturned tables and fallen cups for something, anything.

He spies the glint of obsidian in the firelight; just as he reaches for it, a hand wraps around his jerkin and swings him back with more strength than any person should be capable of. Ned rolls across the floor, grunting as he sees the white walker striding towards him. He manages to get to his feet, gripping Ice and full of fear, for he knows that he won’t be able to outrun the creature. The white walker walks quickly and relentlessly, closing in on Ned as he stumbles back.

_ If only I had grabbed that dagger, if only I had been faster… _

He swings his sword, catching the white walker’s great icy spear. The white walker’s blue eyes widen in something like fear and alarm. Was it not expecting that? 

Ned pulls back and swings again, meeting the spear a second time; when he swings a third time, he cuts the walker from shoulder to hip. To his surprise now, the monster shatters into a thousand thousand shards of ice.

_ Is it as easy as all that? _ Ned wonders, stunned. How many blades have been felled by the Others? How many axes and arrows and knives? What makes Ice different?

The answer comes to him.

_ Ice is Valyrian steel. The dragonlords made this sword and breathed their flame into it, just as the dragonglass derives its name from a dragon’s breath. Ice can kill a white walker. _

His purpose renewed, Ned digs wildly for the dragonglass, finding the bag at last. He gathers what pieces he can find before the fire threatens to choke him, and then he spills out into the snow and fog. 

Thousands more wights run off the top of the mountain, falling in a heap on the ground. They lie there for only a moment before leaping to their feet and running forward. 

A pair of big red eyes materialize beside Ned, and with a start, he realizes that Ghost is beside him. The direwolf noses his arm, almost as if he is urging his master to leave. Ned doesn’t need to be told twice; he runs for the gate, waving Ice to show his men that it’s time to leave. They will die if they stay here. 

To Ned’s horror, even the gates do not hold back the tide of wights; one gate collapses completely while the second bursts open. He and his men run for the boats, Ghost beside him and the giant bringing up the rear. Ned does not dare to look back, knowing that one misstep, one slowed movement, could be the end of him and the men behind him. 

There is only one boat left, and what’s left of the survivors hop into it. There are still men in the village fighting, but Ned knows they cannot wait; if they do, they’ll die, too. Instead, he orders the Eastwatch oarsmen to push off. The men on shore are still fighting, still screaming and dying; some try to make it to the water, but none do, all save the giant, who wades into the water as if it were nothing.

The fighting and screaming and dying comes to a stop as the last of the survivors are killed. A lone figure walks out to the end of the dock, one with a similar countenance to the earlier white walker. This one has white-grey skin and a horned head, but even from a distance, there’s no mistaking the blue of those eyes. Slowly, he raises his arms...and as he does, the still corpses onshore stir again. Ned watches in horror as every dead man, woman, and child rises to their feet, standing and watching as the lone boat floats on the water. 


	66. ARYA III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably goes without saying but now that the holidays are upon us I can't guarantee how often I'll update. I will also be submerging myself in Star Wars, so sorry in advance if I go AWOL!

When the traitors have been taken to the dungeons, Ros finally permits Arya and Sansa to leave the safety of their mother’s solar and go down to meet her. The two girls trip over themselves to get to her, Nymeria and Lady hot on their heels. 

Mother is in the great hall when they find her; she’s speaking to Maester Luwin and Vayon Poole, but she drops everything to catch her daughters as they fly into her arms.

“Gods be good, I missed you both!” she exclaims, kissing their heads. “Goodness, Sansa, have you grown even taller? Arya, what have you done to your hair?”

Arya flushes. “I cut it.” She’d done it to look like Asha, who keeps her hair cropped short because it’s easier that way. She’d done it after Father left, and though Sansa had exclaimed over it, she’d eventually come around.

Mother fingers the ends of it before nodding. “It suits you.” She kisses them each again. “I was so worried about you both.”

“We were worried about you,” Sansa says. “You were in the Eyrie for so long and no one heard from you.”

Mother sighs. “Yes; a tale I will tell you later.”

“Are Bran and Rickon with you? We couldn’t see them from the solar.”

“They are running around here somewhere,” Mother starts to say, and then a strong pair of arms grabs Arya around the waist and hoists her in the air. She wriggles free, but no sooner have her feet touched the floor than a hand musses her hair. 

“Is that my little sister I see?”

“Robb!” she exclaims, jumping up to hug him. He laughs, catching her. 

“Oh,  _ now _ you want me to pick you up?”

“I didn’t know who you were before,” she protests.

He sets her down and hugs Sansa with much more dignity, though no less affection. Mother watches with a soft smile, glad to see her children together again.

They are alerted to Bran and Rickon entering by the baying of Shaggydog, whose great tail wags as he pounces at his sisters, so excited he cannot help but barrel them over. Bran and Rickon are equally excited; they fly at their sisters, and Arya throws Rickon over her shoulder and spins him around while he screams in delight. Further down the hall, Asha and Theon are embracing, and Melisandre is exchanging quiet words with the red priest Thoros and Beric Dondarrion who Jeyne Poole had been so enamored of. 

A blond headed boy Arya recognizes as Edric Dayne approaches Sansa; she cries out when she sees him and kisses him in front of everyone.

Over the chatter and laughing and joyful reunions, Mother touches Arya’s shoulder and asks, “Why did Sansa write that your aunt was dead? And why did Roose Bolton believe it?”

Arya glances at Aunt Lyanna, who is speaking to a little man. Both of them seem happy to see each other.

“Well,” Arya says slowly. “She  _ did _ die.” She knows; she had seen the corpse for herself, had seen Aunt Lyanna’s glassy eyes staring at nothing. They had tried not to let her see, but she’d fought until a tearful Wynafryd Manderly had told them to let her through.

Three days had melted together in one endless blur of dark days and sleepless nights as the terror set in. Sansa had sent the raven to Riverrun with a shaky hand, terrified out of her mind; it was only after they sent the raven that they realized Roose Bolton was nowhere to be found. They’d closed the gates and barred them, too afraid to send for help lest someone they thought a friend became a foe. 

On the third day of Aunt Lyanna’s death, a scream woke Arya from her snatch of slumber; when she came running, she saw her aunt sitting up, her eyes hollow but very much alive. 

“How?” she’d asked.

Melisandre had looked at her, elated. “The night is dark and full of terrors, child, but the fire burns them all away.”

If Arya hadn’t believed in the red woman’s powers before, she believed in them now.

Word had spread quickly throughout the castle. Though they had celebrated her return, they feared the return of Roose Bolton, this time with an army. 

Aunt Lyanna had written to Castle Black, hoping to reach Father, and to the Eyrie, hoping to reach Mother. She’d written to the Mormonts and the Manderlys, too, because she said they could always be trusted no matter what, and Smalljon Umber had ridden north with Aunt Lyanna’s blessing to bring back men.

And then they’d waited, breathless and afraid. 

The Manderly men had come first, then the Umbers, then the Bear Islanders, and then, to Arya’s shock and delight, two thousand wildlings sent by Mance Rayder, the King-Beyond-the-Wall. They had all been welcomed into Winterfell, and not a moment too soon, for Alys Karstark rode hard from Karhold to tell them that her father and brothers had aligned with Roose Bolton and were marching for Winterfell even now. They’d watched as the Bolton forces gathered and marched until at last they were attacking the castle. 

Aunt Lyanna had made Arya and Sansa stay in Mother’s solar while she commanded from the great hall; the solar is high and difficult to reach, and Aunt Lyanna had thought it the safest place in Winterfell should the castle fall. Asha and Dacey and Alysane had all stayed with Lyanna to protect her; Ros, Wynafryd, Walda, and Jeyne Poole stayed with Arya and Sansa, where they’d watched from the windows and prayed for safety.

Nothing had made Arya’s heart lift so much as seeing the blue and red Tully banners streaming through the pass and thundering towards the Boltons. It had made Arya itch to take Needle and join them, but none of the women would let her, and so she had stayed in the solar and watched as her uncle’s forces destroyed the Bolton army. 

Mother listens to her tale now with a furrowed brow, concern plain on her face. 

“I know it sounds strange,” Arya finishes. “But she really did die, Mother, I swear it.”

“I believe you.” Mother sighs, rubbing her forehead. “Gods be good, I wish your father was here.”

“Me too. Then we could all be together again.”

Mother gives her a sad smile. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it? So much has changed since then.” 

Arya hugs her again. “I’m just glad you’re home now.”

“As am I, child. As am I.”


	67. CASSANA VI

Cassie lies in her bed, staring up at the canopy.

_ Dead, _ a voice in her head seems to say.  _ Dead. _

The tidings had come not from Winterfell, not from the North, but from the Spider, Varys. 

“I’m so sorry, Your Grace,” he had said in a mournful voice, but Cassie does not fool herself into thinking he truly cares. He doesn’t, unless it is to reconsider his options. Her allies grow smaller and smaller; meanwhile, four of the great Northern houses have aligned themselves with the Lannisters, who, in turn, have aligned themselves with the Greyjoys. 

Well,  _ one _ Greyjoy, anyway, but he’s named himself king and all the ironborn seem to acknowledge him as such. Balon’s younger brother Euron crowned himself on Pyke with the driftwood crown, and not long after, took Cersei Lannister for his queen.

_ That _ had surprised Cassie, as it had surprised everyone. Even Uncle Renly had been shocked at his former wife’s choice in husband. 

“She always wanted to be queen,” he’d said, shaking his head. “But what is that crown worth when you are married to a Greyjoy?”

Quite a lot, it seems. Euron Greyjoy may be the king of a spit of land, but he commands the iron fleet and now the western armies as well as all the gold in Casterly Rock. Now Cersei has all of these things at her disposal. 

_ And what do I have? _

The Stormlands, Crownlands, and the Reach are at her disposal, which gives them the advantage in an open battle, but Euron will likely send the iron fleet to besiege the city. The Crownlands and the Stormlands have a sizable fleet, but it is nothing compared to the seafarers from the west, and they will almost certainly succumb to the iron fleet. 

_ I wish Mother was here. I wish she could tell me what to do and sing me a song and lift this burden from my shoulders. _

But Mother is dead, killed in her own room by one of her own bannermen. 

Cassie hardly knows where she stands now. The one to kill her has allied himself with the Lannisters, who are her enemy, yet Roose Bolton is also the enemy of the Starks now. The Starks are not her enemies, but they are not her allies either. So what does this mean? Could she appeal to them to join her? Could she ask her uncle to swear fealty to her and help her defeat the Lannisters and Greyjoys? With the North behind her, she’d be able to rid the Seven Kingdoms of the Lannister threat for good, and if Theon is still alive, they could name him the Lord of the Iron Islands and have the islands back in their pocket.

But that still leaves the problem of Jon and Daenerys. If and when they come back, they’ll want the Iron Throne, and the North will bow to them, not to Cassie. 

_ How can they do this to me? _ she thinks, tears welling in her eyes once more.  _ They are my mother’s kin, I am just as much her child as Jon’s, yet they ally themselves with him and his aunt, though he is Rhaegar’s bastard and I am Robert’s trueborn child. They are my family, yet they’ve chosen the daughter of the man who killed my grandfather and my uncle, the sister of the man who kidnapped my mother and raped her. Do they not love me?  _

A knock on her door makes her sit up. “Yes?”

It’s Uncle Stannis who enters, his face solemn as ever. “Forgive me, Your Grace, I know you are mourning...but there are matters at hand to discuss.”

She sighs. “There always are.”

He closes the door behind him. “Your uncle Renly and Lady Margaery have made plans to move forward with the wedding.”

“Alright.”

“Edmure Tully has wed one of Walder Frey’s daughters, thus securing the Crossing.”

She sighs. “Very well.”

“This will mean Walder Frey will present some difficulty if you mean to march north.”

“I don’t.”

“Your uncle Ned Stark has ordered the gates of the Wall to open; he’s given land to the wildlings.”

_ That _ surprises her. “Why?”

Uncle Stannis stiffens. “I believe it is something to do with the prophecy your mother believed in.”

Ah, yes. The Others and the second Long Night. “What else?”

“The Boltons, Karstarks, and two other minor Northern houses sought to siege Winterfell. They were defeated by Mormont, Manderly, Umber, and Tully men, as well as the wildlings that Ned Stark let into the North.”

Cassie breathes a sigh of relief. “So they’re not a threat to us anymore?”

“I would say not, yet even so, I would advise caution. The Lannisters are powerful allies, and Bolton and Karstark may not stay defeated long.”

“It will have to do for now.”

“Cersei Lannister has also demanded that we release her children to her.”

“No,” Cassie says firmly. “They stay at Dragonstone. Better yet, send for them and have them brought back here.”

Uncle Stannis bows his head. “You know I cannot do that, Your Grace.”

“You can if I command it,” she retorts.

But Uncle Stannis shakes his head. “They are bastards born of incest; to have them here at court would only disgrace you. They are better off at Dragonstone where no one has to look upon them.”

“You speak as if they are hideously deformed.”

“In the eyes of many, they are,” he says, not ungently. “Women cuckold their husbands all the time, bastards earn honors and titles the same as any man, but incest? That is a stain that cannot be washed away.”

“My own mother had a bastard and lied about it, does it really matter?” she asks hotly.

“You know it does, child.”

Cassie grabs a pillow and screams into it before hurling the pillow across the room. “I hate being queen! I rule the Seven Kingdoms, yet I cannot even bring my own cousins to court?”

“They are not your cousins.”

“They are my friends.” 

“And born of incest. You cannot bring them here.”

She hurls another pillow savagely across the room. “I hate you. I hate all of this. I hate being queen, I hate my mother for what she did, I hate my father for dying, I hate Cersei Lannister, I hate  _ everyone. _ ”

“I know,” he says wearily. 

“Then leave.”

He hesitates. “There is...one other matter, Your Grace, which I hesitate to mention, only...I would hate for you to hear it from another.”

She almost commands him to leave again, but something about his face stops her. “Then tell me.”

“It regards your mother.”

She closes her eyes.  _ Mother. _ “Tell me, uncle.”

“It is said...Your Grace, it is said that your mother may yet live.”

She opens her eyes, staring at him. “What?”

“We are still uncertain,” he hurries to tell her. “There is...much that is unclear. But the word in Winterfell is that Lyanna Stark rose from the dead.”

She cannot believe what she is hearing. “Do we have reason to believe it?”

“Of that, I am unsure. Varys is looking into the matter, but we will inform you as soon as we hear more.”

“Do,” she urges. “I...write to Winterfell, if you must, and demand the truth.”

Uncle Stannis hesitates. “Even if she lives...she is still a traitor.”

“I know. But if she lives, then I still have a mother.” She gets out of bed. “Send Shireen to help me dress; I want to discuss the wedding with Uncle Renly. We need a wedding, I think. Some happiness after so many months of suffering.” 

Uncle Stannis bows his head. “As you command, Your Grace.” 

Cassie opens the shutters of her window, letting in the light. Outside, the sun is shining, the gulls are calling, and a million people down below are going about their days. 

_ Mother is alive, I know it, I feel it. I may yet see her again. _


	68. LYANNA XXI

They wait for Ned to return so that they might put the traitors on trial. Lyanna is eager to do it herself, but she knows that task belongs to her brother. They are his bannermen, after all, and the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.

_ I could swing the sword, though.  _

But it would not be considered proper, even now, even after everything...so wait for her brother she must.

In the meantime, she helps Catelyn restore order to Winterfell. The Mormonts, Manderlys, Umbers, Tullys, and free folk who came to their aid are kept well-provisioned and prepared should Lord Ryswell try to rally the rebels and attack again, though word has it that he took his two remaining sons and went into hiding, so there’s little likelihood of that. Young Alys Karstark commands her father’s men now; all her Karstark kin have either been imprisoned or ran off during the battle, and she remains at Winterfell as a sign of good faith. Lyanna likes the Karstark heiress; had she been a little older, Lyanna has no doubt she would have made her one of her ladies-in-waiting when she was queen.

She is eternally grateful to her true ladies-in-waiting; without Walda, Wynafryd, and Dacey, they would never had had an army come to their aid. For their aid, she writes to their families and thanks them, emphasizing how grateful she is for their loyalty to House Stark. 

Catelyn, meanwhile, sends her uncle, the Blackfish, to Moat Cailin with a contingent of Tully men. She writes to Riverrun, informing her brother of their victory and her need of his men for a little while longer. She also instructs him to send their nephew, Lord Robin, back to the Vale and into the care of the Royces. With Lysa Arryn dead, stewardship of her son falls to the Tullys, none of whom can leave their respective posts. The Royces are good people and helped Catelyn, Rickon, and Robin escape; they will care for the boy and rule the Vale until he is of an age. She writes another letter to Yohn Royce, formally requesting he take on the mantle of Lord Regent, and that he will come to the North’s aid if they call.

“The North, the Riverlands, Dorne, and now the Vale,” Lyanna counts as she, Catelyn, Melisandre, Tyrion, Robb, Theon, Asha, Beric, and Thoros look over a map, deciding their next move. “And with the westerlands combining forces with the Iron Islands, that leaves the Crownlands, the Reach, and the Stormlands to try and maintain the kingdom.”

“They won’t be able to,” Catelyn says, firm but gentle. “The Reach has a great army, it’s true, but the Lannisters have an army and a fleet.”

“The greatest fleet in the Seven Kingdoms,” Asha says bitterly. 

“They will not last long,” Melisandre remarks. “The westermen will fall back into their mountains and the Iron Fleet will burn. I have seen it in the flames.”

Lyanna sighs. “And all of it will be for naught if my son does not return. We need to bring him home. We’re running out of time.”

“Doesn’t Slaver’s Bay have ships?” Theon asks, furrowing his brow. “What’s stopping them from sailing back?”

“They don’t have enough ships,” Asha says, arms folded over her chest. “Their navy is small--too small to carry all of her Unsullied.”

“And there may be other complications,” Tyrion muses. “Old Ghis was putting men, women, and children in chains long before the Valyrian Freehold did, and in a matter of days, Daenerys has overturned the masters’ rule and struck off the chains of every slave in the three cities. She would face opposition, surely.”

“Her place is  _ here _ ,” Lyanna complains. “The slaves have been freed, haven’t they?”

“With all respect, my queen,” Melisandre says softly, “it is not so easy as that. I was a slave once. It is their way of life. The slaves do everything; cook, clean, heal, make clothes, care for the children, fight, make love, whatever their masters do not wish to do. The good, wise, and great masters were only able to become so because slaves did all of their work for them. Suddenly, they will have to do everything themselves. They will not be able to go about their lives because slaves were the reason they were able to have lives to begin with. Great men and their wives will now have to fetch their own water from the wells, will have to scour the pots and pans and mend their own clothes. The resentment will boil over. If there has not been fighting already, there soon will be. Those that remember the lives they led with slaves will never forgive Daenerys for changing everything; as long as she draws breath, as long as they have to acknowledge former slaves as their equals, they will want to go back to the way things were. If Daenerys leaves now, there will be fighting, and the masters will become masters again, the slaves put back in their shackles. Change does not happen overnight, a lesson I’m sure Daenerys is learning.”

Lyanna considers this. She supposes Melisandre is right; Melisandre, after all, was a slave herself, and knows these people better than anyone in this room. 

“Then what do we do?” she asks at last. “How do we help her?”

“She needs counsel,” Catelyn says. “She may have conquered Slaver’s Bay, but she is still young. She will need help.”

“I could go to her,” Lyanna realizes. She could, she could take a ship from White Harbor and sail to Slaver’s Bay, and there see her son again…

“ _ No, _ ” several voices say at once. 

“Ned would never forgive me if I let you leave again,” Catelyn says sharply. “Besides, last time you left Winterfell you were captured by wildlings and held hostage.”

“I was fine,” she protests.

“I’ll go,” Robb offers. 

“You are just as young as she is,” Catelyn says with mild exasperation. “She needs someone older and wiser.”

“Well, that rules out Beric,” Thoros jokes.

Lyanna’s eyes roam across the table, where they light on someone who is older and wiser, and easily the cleverest person she knows.

“Tyrion,” she says, and his eyes widen.

“Your Grace?”

“You’re older than Daenerys, and wiser than any man I know,” she says, heart racing as she realizes what a  _ good _ idea this is. “You were also, as I recall correctly, on your way to offer your service to me when you encountered my good-sister at the Crossroads Inn.”

“I was,” he says slowly.

“Then serve me by going to Slaver’s Bay and offering counsel to our queen,” she says, using her own queenly tone to brook no room for argument. “I can think of no one better suited to the task.”

Tyrion’s eyes flicker around the room. “You truly wish this? There isn’t someone better?”

“None that I can think of.”

Tyrion hesitates. “I would be honored, Your Grace, of course...but there is one small problem. Daenerys has no reason to trust me. My brother’s most famous act was killing her father, and my own father sacked the city and had his men rape and kill Elia and her children. Why should she listen to me?”

“Because I sent you,” Lyanna says imperiously. “She knows I am loyal to her, and that I would not send counsel to her unless I was absolutely certain of their loyalty.”

He looks touched. “And you are absolutely certain of mine?”

“Yes.”

Tyrion bows his head. “Then I would be honored.”

“Wonderful. I will make the arrangements,” she says, relieved.

“That’s all very well,” Robb says, “but it still will not resolve the matter of the fleet.”

Asha steps forward. “If I may, Your Grace?” At Lyanna’s nod, she continues, “My ship,  _ The Black Wind _ , waits for me in White Harbor, and more will come if they learn I am still alive and actively oppose the reign of my uncle. Euron commands no loyalty, only fear; it is common knowledge he’s cut the tongue out of every mouth on his ship. Let me muster what ironborn I can; in this way, we can weaken Euron’s forces while strengthening Daenerys’s. The Manderlys have ships of their own; between the men loyal to me and the Manderly forces, we will have more than enough to bring the Targaryens and the Unsullied to Westeros.”

Of course. Lyanna had not considered that before. Wyman Manderly has been talking about building up a navy for years now--why hadn’t they listened? 

_ And with a Greyjoy leading the fleet… _

“I like this idea,” she says, decided. “What do you need from me to make it happen?”

“Only men to see me to White Harbor; I can take the rest from there.”

“Consider it done,” Lyanna says, relieved. “I will send fifty men to escort Lord Tyrion and Lady Asha to White Harbor; from there, Lord Tyrion will make for Slaver’s Bay and Lady Asha will sail for the Iron Islands. Are we all in agreement?”

Everyone murmurs in the affirmative; decided, they part ways.

Once in her room, Lyanna orders a bath drawn; as soon as it has been done, she dismisses all her ladies, save for Melisandre. Only then does she disrobe. 

“It will never heal,” Melisandre says softly. 

“I know.” She runs her fingers over the wound, stiff and scarred. She had had some small hope of it healing in time, but that hope had been shattered when she’d seen Beric Dondarrion. She’s seen his scars for herself and knows that if their conditions are anything alike, she will have this gaping wound for the rest of her life. 

Shrugging it off, she climbs into the tub, sinking below the water. She doesn’t want her ladies to see it, not even Ros, who she loves too tenderly to subject her to this ugly, terrible thing. Melisandre is the only one she trusts with her scar because Melisandre is the one who brought her back. 

Melisandre is quiet for a moment, sprinkling perfume in the tub. “They will have to see. Eventually.”

“I know.” And she does. Her ladies help her dress and undress, they’ve all helped her bathe; someday, sooner or later, Melisandre won’t be there, and one of them will be. “But I’m not ready. Not yet.” She rests her head on the rim of the tub. “Can you bring back anyone, do you think?”

“I don’t know,” Melisandre admits. “Thoros brings back Beric every time he dies, yet I cannot understand what purpose Beric serves. You, I understand. You, the Lord of Light has chosen to lead the search for the prince that was promised. But if Beric, a lesser lord from the Stormlands, can be brought back time and again, why not anyone? Yet I pray it will not come to that.”

“Of course.” She hesitates. “Do you think I made the right decision? Sending Tyrion to Daenerys and giving Asha control of the fleet?”

“Yes.”

When Melisandre does not elaborate, Lyanna presses, “Do you think...there’s something  _ more _ I should be doing?”

Melisandre smiles. “This waiting pains you more than dying ever did.”

“Dying happened all at once. The waiting takes forever. I sent Jon to Essos  _ years _ ago, and he still has not come back. My daughter will come of age soon; will she still want to see me? Or will Robert’s brothers have turned her against me? I knew this undertaking would be hard, but I had no idea it would take so  _ long _ .”

“Have patience, my queen,” Melisandre says gently. “Everything is coming together exactly as the Lord of Light intended. Have patience, and above all, faith.”

“I’ve never had much of either,” Lyanna admits.

Melisandre cups her chin. “You have more faith than anyone I know. Faith is not the mindless babbling of prayers and hymns, not the mind-numbing hours spent on knees, praying to false gods. Faith is believing even when there is every chance of failing, faith is trusting where there is no guarantee. You have so much faith, my queen, and it is that faith that will see your son safely returned to you.”

“I hope you are right,” Lyanna says softly. 

Melisandre kisses her. “Trust me, my queen.”

“I always do.”


	69. BENJEN IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all i'm gonna say...is that i chose this chapter for a reason

They’ve been riding for two weeks when the first wight attacks. 

They’ve made camp out in the open, for there are no trees nor rocks nor hills to shade them. Grenn has the watch, but he does not see the wight until it is too late. Benjen cannot blame him for that; it’s a moonless, cloudy night, and the wight moves silently through the snow. 

Rast is the first to go, his scream alerting them too late that danger lurks in their camp. The others leap to their feet with shouts, reaching for their swords.

“Don’t kill it!” Benjen bellows. “We need to bring it back!”

It is at that precise moment two  _ more _ wights come stumbling out of the woods, making a strange chittering sound. Pyp and Dolorous Edd attempt to subdue the first wight, throwing the heavy canvas over it, while the others go to defeat the other wights. Lannister’s eyes are wide and afraid, but he swings his sword and cuts one in half.

It doesn’t have the desired effect--the wight uses its arms to crawl forward, and Benjen takes off the creature’s head. It still screams at him, its arms dragging along its torso; Benjen grabs the wight’s spine and hurls it into the fire. The head shrieks, but as the body burns, the rest of it goes still. 

The other wight is similarly dispatched, with the head being thrown into the fire once it’s been parted from the rest of its body. They help Pyp and Edd wrap the remaining wight in its canvas sheet, securing it tightly with ropes. Their work done, they step back, watching as the wight struggles in vain. Satisfied that the binding will hold, they begin packing up camp. They’re not like to sleep now, not after the excitement, and if three wights came out of the woods, who’s to say more won’t follow? Better they head south now, and sleep when they’re further away from danger.

“Alright, Lannister?” Benjen can’t help asking as he mounts his horse. 

“Fine,” Lannister lies, visibly shaken.

“Not just grumkins and snarks up here, you know.”

Lannister gives him a wilting look...and then slumps. “I see that now.”

Satisfied, Benjen leads the men south.

.

The wight gives them little trouble, once they figure out how to transport the damned thing. Since Rast is dead, they use his horse, trussing the wight over the saddle and having Lommy and Hot Pie lead the creature. The wight only fights for a little bit, but once it realizes it’s not getting anywhere, it simmers down. They leave it on the horse all day and all night; the horse is unhappy with this development, but it’s better than taking it off and putting it back on and enduring a fit each time. 

Lannister has become more subdued since they caught the creature. His quips are fewer and farther between, and he keeps glancing uneasily at the wight. Benjen almost feels bad for the man; but it’s hard when he remembers what an ass he’s been.

They’re not far from Castle Black when they stop to make camp inside a cave. They build a fire and roast sausages over spits, and it isn’t until Benjen is on his third that he realizes someone is missing.

“Where’s Lannister?”

“He said he was going exploring,” Lommy reports. “There’s more to the cave than just this.”

“Probably got himself lost,” Heward says, and the other men laugh.

“Alright,” Benjen says, rolling his eyes. He wraps two sausages and puts them in his belt before taking a torch and heading for the back of the cave. Likely Lannister  _ is _ lost, or sulking, and he’ll be hungry when Benjen finds him.

He goes all the way to the back of the cave, following it down a winding, sloping path. Up ahead, he can hear water and see the glow from another torch.

“Lannister?” he calls, and he stumbles down to a low part of the cave, where he finds a pool of steaming water. 

Lannister is already in the hot spring, his nakedness hidden beneath the waters. He scowls up at Benjen.

“Do you mind?”

“We were looking for you; dinner’s ready.” He pulls out the sausages and sets them on the rock ledge beside Lannister.

“I’m staying here until we leave. This is the warmest I’ve felt since coming up North.”

“Probably the last time you’ll feel such warmth, too,” Benjen agrees. “In fact, I’m tempted to join you.”

“Don’t--” Lannister says, but Benjen has already set down his torch and is making quick work of his clothes. He doesn’t know why he does it, except perhaps to goad the other man, and he shucks off all his layers with more dexterity than he’d thought he had. Lannister stares at him, an unreadable expression on his face as Benjen bares himself, and then splashes into the spring.

“Gods, that feels good,” Benjen comments, sinking below the hot water. 

“You’re getting it dirty,” Lannister complains.

“Too bad.” Benjen dunks his head beneath the water, shaking his hair dry when he emerges. Lannister gives him a funny sort of look but otherwise says nothing.

They sit in silence for a long moment, listening to the water lap against the rock. 

“You don’t like me,” Benjen says at last.

Lannister sighs. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t like anyone.”

“But especially me. Why?”

Lannister hesitates. “Because...you’re Ned Stark’s brother.” 

“ _ That’s _ why you hate me? Because of my brother?” Benjen asks incredulously. 

Lannister closes his eyes, leaning his head back against the rock. “The Mad King was obsessed with wildfire. He loved to watch people burn, the way their skin blackened and blistered and melted off their bones. He burned lords he didn’t like, he burned Hands who disobeyed him, he burned anyone who was against him. Before long, half the country was against him. Aerys saw traitors everywhere. So he had his pyromancer place caches of wildfire all over the city--beneath the Sept of Baelor and the slums of Flea Bottom. Under houses, stables, taverns. Even beneath the Red Keep itself. Finally, the day of reckoning came. Robert Baratheon marched on the capital after his victory at the Trident.”

A sardonic grin overtakes his face. “But my father arrived first with the whole Lannister army at his back, promising to defend the city against the rebels. I knew my father better than that. He’d never been one to pick the losing side. I told the Mad King as much. I urged him to surrender peacefully. But the king didn’t listen to me. He didn’t listen to Varys, who tried to warn him, but he did listen to Grand Maester Pycelle--that grey, sunken cunt. ‘You can trust the Lannisters,’ he said. ‘The Lannisters have always been true friends of the crown.’ So we opened the gates and my father sacked the city. Once again, I came to the king, begging him to surrender.

“He told me to bring him my father’s head. Then he turned to his pyromancer. ‘Burn them all,’ he said. ‘Burn them in their homes, burn them in their beds.’”

Benjen listens in shock and disgust. He’d known Aerys was mad, had known better than most, but this…

“First, I killed the pyromancer,” Jaime continues. “And then when the king turned to flee, I drove my sword into his back. ‘Burn them all,’ he kept saying. ‘Burn them all.’ I don’t think he expected to die. He...he meant to...burn with the rest of us and rise again, reborn as a dragon to turn his enemies to ash. I slit his throat to make sure that didn’t happen. That’s where your brother found me.”

“Why didn’t you tell him?” Benjen whispers.

“You think the  _ honorable _ Ned Stark wanted to hear my side? He judged me guilty the moment he set eyes on me. By what right does the wolf judge the lion? By what right does--”

But he doesn’t finish, because at that moment, Benjen kisses him.

He doesn’t know why, but he doesn’t stop, and neither does Jaime, and as their torches slowly gutter out, the cave fills with the sounds of their panting.

.

It’s dark when they finally climb out of the pool and into their clothes. 

“Stark,” Jaime says, as if he hasn’t just had his mouth around the other man’s cock--or the other man’s around his own. “What does this mean?”

Benjen hesitates. “I don’t know,” he admits at last. “I don’t know what anything means anymore.” 


	70. NED VIII

The sight of Winterfell fills Ned with something almost like relief. After watching an army of corpses kill men, women, and children, after coming face to face with the white walkers of Old Nan’s stories, the thought of his home and its high walls makes him breathe easy once more. 

He doesn’t mean to, but he finds himself urging his horse into a run, eager to be home. Ghost also breaks into a run, red tongue hanging out of his mouth as he darts eagerly across the plain.

His whole family is waiting in the yard, and his heart lifts to see all of them. Catelyn, Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran, Rickon, Lyanna, and all their wolves.  _ My family, _ he thinks, swinging off his horse and striding forward to hug all of them. 

Bran and Rickon are the first to reach him, then Arya, then Robb, then Sansa, then Catelyn. He embraces her the longest, breathing in her sweet, familiar scent. 

“I’ve missed you,” he murmurs into her hair.

“And I’ve missed you so much, Ned. You have no idea.” 

He kisses her cheek and then finally turns to Lyanna, who looks almost shy. Is it because he’d sent her home the last time they’d met?

“Lyanna,” he greets, embracing her.

“Ned.” She gives a small shiver. “Have you...has no one told you?”

“Told me what?” He looks between his wife and his sister. 

Catelyn takes a deep breath. “I think we had best go inside. There is...much to discuss.”

“Very well.” Ned looks at them in surprise but allows Catelyn to thread her arm through his and guide him into the keep.

“Lord Stark,” Theon calls, and Ned turns to look at him. 

The boy has grown into a man now; no longer the child he’d taken in so long ago. He bows his head. “My lord...when you brought me to Winterfell so many years ago, my father understood that if he rose against the crown again, he would pay for it with my life. My father did rise again. That’s why Robb and I did not return right away; we feared that you would take my life to punish my father.”

Ned closes his eyes. So that was the cause for it. He feels shame welling in him. His own son, his own ward, feared him so. He remembers Asha Greyjoy coming to him and bending the knee, forswearing her father’s crown to spare the life of her brother. Had they all thought him such a monster?

“Father,” Robb says, and Ned looks at him. He is a man grown too, now, his face stern and serious. “You won’t kill Theon, will you? It isn’t his fault his father revolted, and now it isn’t even his father who rules the ironborn, it’s his traitorous uncle, Euron. Euron would thank you for killing his nephew, so what reason is there for killing him now?”

“I’m not going to kill Theon,” Ned says before Robb can become too impassioned. “I decided that a long time ago.”

Theon’s face lifts with relief. “You did?”

Ned closes the distance between him and the younger man, gripping his shoulders. “Theon, you’re like a son to me. You always have been. You may not have my name, or my blood, but you are my son all the same.”

Theon’s eyes fill with tears, and Ned embraces him just as he had embraced his own children moments ago. He can feel Theon’s breath catch and embraces him all the tighter. 

.

Catelyn and Lyanna take Ned up to his solar and tell him everything. Ned feels himself aging with every word that falls from their lips, and by the time they finish, he feels at least a thousand years old. 

“Ned?” Catelyn says gently, when she and Lyanna have finished. 

He scratches Ghost’s head, contemplating. “I’m...thinking.”

“It’s a lot to take in,” Lyanna allows. 

“You really  _ died _ ?”

Steel finds its way into Lyanna’s eyes. “Not just died. I was murdered, Ned, by Roose Bolton, and then he marched on Winterfell with an army. He meant to kill Catelyn and all your children. You cannot let that go, Ned.”

“I won’t,” he says, louder than he means to. “He will be tried for his crimes, and he will be found guilty.” He sighs. “There are things I must tell you, too.”

“Like what?” Catelyn asks, so he tells them.

Catelyn and Lyanna listen with widening eyes as he describes the battle at Hardhome and his confrontation with the white walkers. Lyanna grips his hand throughout the telling, fearful.

“Oh, Ned,” she murmurs when he’s finished. “You saw him.”

“Him?”

“The Great Other. The dark one who is the enemy of the Lord of Light.”

Ned glances at Catelyn. “I don’t…”

“Oh, please!” Lyanna huffs. “I died and was brought back and you  _ still _ hesitate to believe in R’hllor?”

And, well, she has him there. “He was...he looked like a man. But he wasn’t.”

“Melisandre says he was a man, once,” Lyanna says, surprising him. “But not anymore. Now he’s something else. Not human.”

“Other,” Ned murmurs. “He’s an Other.”

They sit in silence for a long moment.

“I hope they find Jon,” Lyanna murmurs at last. “Tyrion and Asha. I hope they find him and Daenerys and bring them home. Gods, I hope they bring them home.”

“They will,” Catelyn soothes, rubbing her good-sister’s back.

Ned rises on tired knees. “I’ll put Bolton and the others on trial. Tomorrow.”

“So soon?” Catelyn asks in surprise.

“Not soon enough. But I’m tired now. Tomorrow I’ll be more rested.”

“You should rest.” Lyanna gets up also, squeezing his hands. “I’ve missed you, big brother.”

He embraces her; when she leaves, Catelyn takes his arm and leads him to her rooms. “You need a bath,” she says firmly. 

“Do I smell that bad?”

“No. Well, you don’t smell  _ sweet _ , but what I mean is, you need a good hot soak. It will make you feel better. Less weary.”

“You’re probably right,” he sighs. “I’m so tired, Cat. There are enemies in every corner, and every time we cut one down, two more spring up in their place.”

“Not for long,” she says firmly. “Soon there will only be one enemy.”

“Aye, and he’s worse than all the rest put together.”

When they get to her room, she reaches for the bell to summon her servants, but Ned stills her hand. 

“Not yet,” he murmurs, kissing her open palm. “We’ve been apart too long, Cat.”

“It’s broad daylight, Ned,” she points out, but her cheeks flush prettily. 

“So?”

“You won’t even do it unless the candles are snuffed out.”

“I used to. Now, I want you.”

When Catelyn smiles, he knows he’s come home for true.

.

After they’ve taken their pleasure (a couple of times), Catelyn wraps herself in a robe and calls for a bath. The maids look determinedly away as Ned hides beneath the covers with as much dignity as he can muster given the circumstances. When the maids have left, he climbs into the tub, groaning with relief as the hot water settles around him. Catelyn kneels beside the tub, washing his hair and scrubbing his back. 

“Maybe I should put the traitors on trial today,” he sighs. “Get it over with.”

“They can wait until tomorrow,” Catelyn says firmly, pouring water over his head. “For now, you should rest. Relax. Revive yourself. It will go easier for you if you do.”

“Ah, you’re probably right.” He leans back against the tub. “I can’t believe they would do this. Not just Bolton, but the Karstarks and the Ryswells and the Dustins…”

“The Boltons have always been enemies to the Starks.”

“Hundreds of years ago, yes, but not in recent memory.”

Catelyn shakes her head. “Perhaps the memory is not so recent to the Boltons. Or perhaps Tywin Lannister made promises even a man like Roose Bolton could not help but believe.” She sighs. “Having the Vale was not enough for him, he had to try to take the North, too.”

“For all the good that did him,” Ned grunts.

Catelyn is quiet for a moment. “It won’t be easy. Even with the traitors dead, you’ll still have enemies. What’s left of their kin. Mothers and wives and daughters who will simmer in resentment.”

“Would you rather me let them live?”

“No. Gods, no. I only want you to know that the hard part isn’t over.”

“I know,” he sighs. “The hard part hasn’t even begun.”

.

In the morning, Ned dresses in some of his finer clothes, determined to play the part of the civilized lord. He takes Ice with him, and lays the sword across his lap in the great hall as his men bring the traitors before him.

The whole Northern court is gathered in the hall, standing or sitting on the dais and along the benches and walls. Despite their numbers, the hall is deadly silent save for the clink of traitors’ chains. Ned is silent, too, for a long moment. He can see the Ryswell boy shifting uneasily, the Karstarks trading looks.

“My lords,” he says at last, cold and calm. “Explain yourselves.”

Roger Ryswell is the first to break, turning in his comrades and blubbering for mercy. 

_ He is a coward, _ Ned thinks scornfully,  _ but at least he is telling the truth. _

When the Ryswell boy has finished, the Karstark boys speak up next, insisting they acted for honor, and then it’s Lord Karstark, trying to spare his sons. On and on it goes, until they’ve all spoken.

All but one.

“Lord Bolton,” Ned says when the Karstarks have fallen silent. “You have nothing to say?”

“I’m afraid not,” Bolton says, quiet and careless. 

“You have no defense, no excuse?”

“No.”

Ned considers him. He confesses nothing, yet he denies nothing. 

_ He killed my sister and marched on my home. He meant to kill my family.  _

“Roose Bolton, Rickard Karstark, Harrion Karstark, Eddard Karstark, Torrhen Karstark, Cregan Karstark, Arthor Karstark, Roger Ryswell, I name you murderers and traitors and sentence you to death.”

“No!” one of the Karstark boys bellows, but Ned pays him no mind. Instead, he has his men escort the traitors out to the yard, where they are made to kneel in the mud. One at a time, he swings his sword and cleaves heads from shoulders until there is a pool of blood surrounding the block. When he is done, he leans heavily on Ice, sore and winded. 

Winterfell is safe.

For now. 


	71. JON XX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want y'all to know that as of this chapter, I have written over 400 pages in Google docs for this fic and I have no idea how to feel about that.
> 
> Also, comment moderation has been enabled because some of you guys can't read the author's note in chapter 1 and it shows.

“I’ve decided to reopen the fighting pits.”

Jon stares at Dany. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am.” She clasps her hands in front of her. “I know I was...against the idea, but I’ve come to see a...different perspective of it.”

“What perspective is that?” he wants to know. “Slaves fought in those pits.”

“And free men will fight in them now,” she says firmly. “The fighting pits were what made Meereen famous. A stipend can be paid to the fighters until we figure out a better solution. I’m told bets are common, and while I normally disapprove of gambling, it has been pointed out to me that people enjoy frivolous reasons to spend money. It’s good for morale.”

Jon narrows his eyes. “It’s your voice I’m hearing, but the words coming from your mouth belong to Hizdahr zo Loraq...and Daario Naharis.”

Her cheeks turn pink, but she does not deny it. 

“Fighting pits are good,” Strong Belwas declares. “People love fighting pits. Old men and women, young men and women, even the little children love the fighting. Let the free men fight.”

“It  _ would _ be good for morale,” Jorah agrees. “Just as tourneys are always good for morale in Westeros. Tourneys only happen in peacetime; perhaps by reopening the fighting pits, we can restore the peace.”

“It won’t be enough to rid the city of the Sons of the Harpy,” Jon points out. 

“No. But it is a concession,” Oberyn says. “One that may distract them. They have the most to gain from reopening the fighting pits.”

Jon sees the sense in it, but still, he mislikes the idea. How many of the “free men” fighting in these pits will be coerced? How many of them will choose to fight because they want to and not out of some threat or necessity? 

Dany clears her throat. “And...I have decided to marry Hizdahr zo Loraq.”

“Oh,” Jon says in distaste. He is not the only one; no one at the table looks happy. 

“Your Grace, is marriage to Hizdahr  _ necessary _ ?” Oberyn wheedles. “He will buy you allies in Meereen, certainly, but what happens when you cross the sea and make for Westeros? The Westerosi will want you to take a Westerosi husband, not a foreign slaver.”

“I had considered that,” Dany allows. “But we will never  _ get _ to Westeros if we do not first restore peace here. To make peace, I must marry a Meereenese noble, and who better than Hizdahr zo Loraq?”

No one else says anything, and Dany sighs. “I know. But what choice do I have?”

Jon opens his mouth to tell her, but Aggo enters just then. “ _ Khaleesi _ , a Westerosi imp is here to see you. He says he was sent by Lyanna Stark.”

“My mother?” Jon asks, rising. “Who is he?”

“He names himself Tyrion Lannister.”

A Lannister? Jon can hardly believe his mother would send a  _ Lannister _ to them, especially the dwarf. He exchanges a curious look with Dany. 

“Did he say why?”

“No,  _ Khaleesi _ .”

Dany hesitates. “Have him wait in the hall with the others. I will send for him when I’m ready.”

“Yes,  _ Khaleesi _ .” Aggo leaves, and Dany turns to her advisers. 

“What make you of this?”

“It is...unusual,” Jorah allows. “But, with respect, so is Lyanna Stark.”

“She does have a habit of gathering peculiar friends,” Oberyn agrees. 

“But what if this is a trap?” Jon asks. “What if Tyrion comes representing House Lannister’s interests, and not my mother’s?”

“Tywin Lannister has never been fond of Tyrion; even if he was foolhardy enough to send his own child to negotiate peace with a Targaryen, he wouldn’t send his shame. He would not send the imp of Casterly Rock,” Oberyn declares. 

There’s sense in what he says, but it is unusual nonetheless. 

“Well, I suppose I won’t know until I meet with him,” Dany finally decides, and so they follow her down the winding steps of the Great Pyramid to the throne room. Once seated on her stone bench, her advisers arranged around her, Dany sends for Tyrion Lannister.

The man that enters is nothing like Jon imagined. He had conjured up the specter of a foul demon with golden hair. The man that waddles into the hall is ugly, it’s true, but he is no demon. A beard covers his face, a darker shade than the burnished gold of his hair, and when he bows, Jon sees that his back and legs are stiff and sore. 

_ He’s just a man,  _ he realizes with some shame. 

“My queen,” Tyrion Lannister greets. “Thank you for receiving me.”

“How could I not?” Dany asks, kindly but with a steely note. “A Lannister that serves House Stark?”

“House Stark has shown me greater affection than my own,” Lord Tyrion says politely. “Queen Lyanna is a dear friend of mine, and I shared the road with Lady Catelyn and her sons from Riverrun to Winterfell.”

“Lady Catelyn?” Jon cannot help but ask. 

Tyrion’s mismatched eyes find him with a smile. “You must be Jon Snow. You have your mother’s look.”

Jon does not know what to say to that. 

Tyrion reaches into his tunic, pulling out a folded piece of paper. “Your mother sent me with this—a letter, explaining everything. I imagine you will have some questions when you have finished reading it.”

Jon comes down the steps to accept the letter; he starts to open it, but Tyrion shakes his head. “Not here. You’ll want to be alone.”

Jon tucks the letter into his own tunic. “Very well.”

“Why are you here, Lord Tyrion?” Dany asks. “You say Queen Lyanna is a friend to you and you shared the road with my nephew’s family, but is this truly enough to change your loyalties?”

Tyrion’s smile is sardonic. “It is when you’re a dwarf. I will be truthful, Queen Daenerys; I had no stake in the battle for succession. I cared little. My father commands Casterly Rock and all its forces, and he is not an old man; he will command those forces for some time. I was content to spend his coin and drink his stores until the day he finally croaked.” He takes a deep breath. “My father has never loved me, or liked me. He has always made that clear. He had talked vaguely of refusing to give me my inheritance, but I had not taken him seriously. All the realm knew my brother Jaime could not inherit, and my sister would never inherit, either, not with so many Lannister men hanging about, especially her own trueborn brother.” A wry smile spreads over his face. “All the realm knew it, but my own father still denies it. He would rather put my adultering sister and her Greyjoy husband on a traitor’s throne and name them rulers of Casterly Rock than see me named its lord. It doesn’t matter that Jaime was sent to the Wall and my sister is a traitor; he would rather hold out hope for them than trust me, who has never done him wrong. He would sooner see me dead than inherit so much as a copper. 

“Queen Lyanna has always been kind to me--kinder than my father or sister ever were. I decided I would rather swear myself to her with no guarantee of anything than let myself remain in Casterly Rock with the constant fear of my family doing as they’ve always longed and ridding themselves of me for good and all. As I said, I shared the road to Winterfell with Lady Catelyn and her sons, and I grew to admire them. I have more reason to be loyal to the Starks than to my family, and if the Starks are loyal to House Targaryen, then so am I.”

Jon glances at Dany, who looks questioningly back at him. Do they trust Tyrion Lannister? 

_ Why not? _

“If you are loyal to me, then lend me your counsel,” Dany decides at last.

“It would be an honor, Your Grace.”

“I have been...encouraged by the Meereenese nobles to take a husband from one of the old families. My advisors, however, think a Meereenese husband would be ill-received in Westeros. What do  _ you _ think?”

Tyrion considers her. “I agree with your advisors.”

“Is that so?” Dany asks coldly.

He bows his head. “It may not be what you want to hear, Your Grace, but with all respect, Lyanna Stark did not send me here to flatter you. She sent me here to help you conclude your business in Meereen and make for Westeros. Marrying a Meereenese noble would have the opposite effect. It may buy you some peace for a time, surely, but it would forever tie you to this city, and the Westerosi would never forget it. Many there will already think of you as a foreigner, despite being born on its soil, and if you arrive with not only a foreign husband on your arm, but a former slaver, at that, the Westerosi would take offense. You are already bringing an army of Unsullied and dragons, as well as being a woman. Why risk further dissent?”

Dany opens her mouth...and then closes it. “Perhaps Queen Lyanna was right to send you,” she allows. “You must be tired from the long journey, my lord. My attendants will show you to your room and see to your needs.”

Tyrion bows deeply. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

As soon as he’s gone, Dany looks around at her advisors. “Well?”

“I like him,” Jorah says. “He speaks bluntly but not unkindly, and his advice is sound.”

“I agree,” Oberyn says--a rarity, for the two men rarely agree on anything. “He is no mere flatterer seeking a position of power.”

Dany looks at Jon expectantly. He nods. “I trust him. For now.”

“For now,” she echoes. “I suppose that’s all we can ask for.” She looks at the Shavepate, slumping a little. “How many, Skahaz?”

He clears his throat. “Ninety-three, Your Grace.”

She sighs. “Well, let’s get to it.”

.

Jon excuses himself as soon as is polite, pulling his mother’s letter out of his shirt. 

_ My dearest Jon, _

_ How do I even begin to tell you all that has come to pass? _

_ I went beyond the Wall and was held hostage by the wildlings. I got my brother Ned and the King-Beyond-the-Wall to make peace and convince the Night’s Watch to let the wildlings through and farm the land just south of the Wall. I was killed by Roose Bolton and brought back to life by Melisandre. An army of insurrectionists led by Bolton tried to attack, but the North and the Riverlands rallied to save Winterfell. All this I will tell you in greater detail when I see you again. _

_ Which brings me to the purpose of this letter. I have sent Tyrion to help Daenerys conclude her business in Meereen and sail for Westeros. Asha Greyjoy has sworn herself to our cause and is even now mustering a fleet. She will be there soon, to bring you home to me. _

_ We need you, Jon, you and Daenerys and her dragons and her army. The Army of the Dead grows stronger every day, and soon they will be at the Wall...and god only knows what will happen then.  _

_ I pray you urge Daenerys to come home. I know she has no easy task, restoring peace to Meereen, but she will not have a kingdom to reclaim here if she does not make haste. Even if the white walkers do not get past the Wall, there is unrest in the south. The Lannisters have allied with Euron Greyjoy against the crown, and your sister must go to war. She is too young to be queen, let alone queen militant.  _

_ Come home. Defeat the Lannisters and Euron Greyjoy, and then march north for the Wall. We need you, Jon. I need you. _

_ All my love, _

_ Your Mother _

Jon reads the letter over and over again. When he has memorized nearly every word, he goes to Tyrion’s room. 

The dwarf answers the door with an almost expectant look. “I take it you read the letter.”

Jon clears his throat. “What can we do? How can we help my aunt restore the peace and make for Westeros?”

Tyrion steps back and beckons him to come in.

.

A fortnight after Tyrion’s arrival in Meereen, Dany reopens the fighting pits. The city celebrates for a day and a night before the first of the great fights. On the morning of the first fight, a great procession leads Dany and her retinue from the Great Pyramid to Daznak’s Pit, drums beating and people cheering. 

There is nothing cheerful about Dany, who, despite the bright colors of her yellow  _ tokar _ and red veils, looks grim at the prospect of the fighting pits opening once again. 

Beside her, Hizdahr zo Loraq looks pleased as can be, smiling and waving at the crowd. Jon supposes he has every reason to be happy; he’s finally gotten what he wanted. The Sons of the Harpy have gotten what they wanted, too, at least in some measure. Or at least, Jon assumes that they are happy with the reopening of the fighting pits, because there has not been a single attack since the announcement was made. He has long suspected Hizdahr of being their leader, and this all but confirms it. 

_ We only have to catch him and get a confession out of him, _ he thinks grimly. Perhaps the wine and cheer of the fighting pits will do just the trick.

Daznak’s Pit is an enormous arena packed with people in the traditional blue and gold  _ tokars _ of Meereen as well as the brown and beige garments of freedmen. They stand together, clapping and cheering and calling, “ _ Mhysa, Mhysa! _ ”

_ Even the freedmen are happy to be here, watching men die, _ Jon thinks sourly.

The royal procession makes its way onto the dais, where Dany, Hizdahr, Oberyn, Ellaria, and Tyrion have seats. The others stand behind, watching as the master of ceremonies comes out to give a speech honoring Dany. Two men come out; one small and one large. The master of ceremonies leaves, and silence descends on the arena.

“They’re waiting for you,” Hizdahr says softly. “Clap your hands.”

Slowly, Dany lifts her hands...and brings them together with a definitive clap.

The pit erupts in cheers. 

Fight after fight ensues, in nearly every combination Jon can imagine. Big men against small men, men against women, men against boys, men against bears and boars and lions. The sand turns red with blood, and with each drop that is spilt, Dany looks more and more discomfited. 

“Not long now,” Jon whispers when she pulls back her veils and asks for sweetwater. “Only a little longer, Your Grace, you can endure it.”

“How can I endure men killing each other for sport?” she whispers back, but she drinks the sweetwater and pulls the veils over her face again.

Daario is talking again, as he has been for much of the fighting (to everyone’s displeasure), when the sultry monotony of the day is broken by a spear from the fighting pit sailing towards the dais. Jon doesn’t think, just grabs Dany and pulls her to the floor. The spear lands in a man at the back of the dais…

...with a knife in one hand and a harpy’s mask upon his face.

As Jon looks around, he realizes that there are more and more men wearing harpy’s masks. The cheers of the arena turn to screams as the Sons of the Harpy turn on the freedmen and women, driving their knives through their bellies and slitting their throats. 

“Protect the queen!” Jon bellows, and Dothraki and Unsullied alike rush to block anymore murderers from the dais. 

“Daenerys!” Hizdahr shouts, clutching one of the poles supporting the dais. “I know a way out we can--”

But a knife drives into his back, and he falls to the ground, eyes and mouth wide.

_ Not a harpy after all, _ Jon thinks with a tinge of regret. 

“The pit!” Jorah shouts. “We can go through the barracks!”

It’s as good a idea as any. The bloodriders and the Unsullied stave back the attackers as Jon, Jorah, Oberyn, and Daario help Dany down into the pit, pulling Ellaria, Missandei, Tyrion, and the handmaids down once Dany is secure. Her veils and  _ tokar _ have slipped away, leaving her only in a white silk shift. Hand wrapped firmly around her arm, Jon leads her and the others to the nearest entrance into the pit, but the way is barred. 

“The other side!” Daario calls, leading them, but they do not even get halfway across the arena before Sons of the Harpy spill out of the other entrance, armed and ready. 

The Unsullied and the bloodriders form a protective ring around Dany, shields up and swords and spears at the ready. The Sons of the Harpy surround them, knives in hand. 

The fighting is painstakingly slow. The Sons of the Harpy outnumber the Unsullied, but everyone knows the strength of the Unsullied; the Sons of the Harpy know exactly what these former slaves are capable of.

They lash out one at a time. Most of the Sons of the Harpy end up dead on the ground, but whenever one falls from their ranks, the others move closer, filling in the gaps and forcing the Unsullied to back up. 

_ We are going to die, _ Jon realizes in a panic.  _ The Unsullied won’t hold forever. Sooner or later they’ll fall, one by one, and then we’ll all fall, and the Sons of the Harpy will kill Dany. _

A dragon’s shriek rents the air.

Everyone freezes, looking up at the sound. Jon knows that call. He knows that dragon.

_ Drogon. _

The black and scarlet beast is bigger than Jon remembers. He soars in over the arena, circling it with wings that stir the sand, and when he lands on the ground, he crushes two men beneath his powerful feet. The dragon rears back its head and opens its maw wide, roaring so loudly the air seems to vibrate. He opens his mouth a second time, and this time, fire spews out, incinerating a group of harpies. Their gold masks melt as their clothes turn to ash and their bones collapse on the floor, and then they are no more. 

Most of the Sons of the Harpy flee at this, and those that are foolish enough to remain are turned to ash. Jon feels his heart lift as the arena clears. 

_ We’re safe, Dany’s safe, we’ll survive-- _

And then a spear pierces Drogon’s back.

It seems to anger the beast more than hurt him; he shrieks, unleashing more fire in the direction from which the spear flew. Another spear lands in his back, and this one makes the dragon buckle. 

Jon starts for the dragon, but it’s Dany who goes to him, pulling the spear from his neck. The dragon roars, his enormous teeth snapping shut inches from her face...but when he recognizes her, he croons.

Dany reaches out to touch his snout, and another spear buries itself in his neck. She pulls this one free, and then, to Jon’s shock and horror, climbs onto Drogon’s back to pluck the final spear free. She straddles his neck, and then Drogon lifts his scarlet wings and carries them up, up, and away, until the black blot disappears into the sun and Jon can see them no more. 


	72. THEON VIII

He really hates Darkstar.

It’s bad enough that the knight is  _ here _ , in Winterfell, Theon’s home...but for him to have little Jeyne Poole wrapped around his finger?

Well, that’s unforgivable.

Not that she’s very little anymore...as Robb is fond of pointing out. She’s a woman now, old enough to marry and bear children. 

_ But whose children? _

He doesn’t know why it concerns him so much. They’d exchanged flirtations a long time ago, when she was little more than Sansa’s pretty friend. Now, though…

“Gods, are you still mooning?” Anguy snorts.

“I am  _ not _ mooning,” Theon huffs. 

“What else do you call it when you can’t stop staring at the lass?”

“I call it staring. And I am not staring at her.”

Anguy smirks. “Says you. Your eyes tell a different tale.”

Theon simmers at that. Perhaps he has been staring at Jeyne a little too often. He’s only human after all, and she’s a lovely woman; is it such a crime to eye a pretty lass as she passes?

And he doesn’t think he’s wrong in imagining her eyes on him from time to time, too. Just as she’s become a woman in their time apart, he’s become a man, and not just any man, but a member of a sworn brotherhood. It’s the sort of thing Jeyne and Sansa would have adored when they were girls...and the sort of thing that makes them both weak at the knees now.

Sansa has hardly let Edric Dayne breathe since they reached Winterfell, and the lad is scarcely less eager to be by her side. They’d teased Ned a fair amount, but Theon truly thinks that all the time spent between Edric and Sansa is innocent, that they really are just holding hands and smiling stupidly over love songs and flowers and embroidery. 

So it comes as no surprise when, one night over dinner, Lord Stark announces that Sansa is to marry Lord Dayne on the full moon. The hall erupts in cheers, and Sansa blushes prettily as the women congratulate her while the brotherhood raise flagons to a bashful Edric.

“The full moon,” Theon remarks when they’ve made their toasts and tousled the lad’s blond hair in a manner most unbecoming of the Lord of Starfall. “That’s soon.”

“It is,” Robb agrees. “But it makes sense. There are enemies in every corner, and we need to make allies. And Sansa will be safe in Starfall, safer than Winterfell if the Others truly do make it past the Wall.”

Theon had not thought of that, but of course Robb is right. Starfall is as far south as you can get in Westeros, and the Others would have to get through a desert to reach it. Sansa will be safe.

_ And Jeyne? _ he cannot help wondering as he watches the girl kiss Sansa’s cheek.  _ Will she be safe in Starfall as Sansa’s maid? Or will she be safe in High Hermitage as its lady? _

He shakes the thought from his head. “The way to Starfall will only be safe once my uncle is defeated.”

“That’s true,” Robb agrees. He hesitates. “Do you think Jon will ever come back? With Daenerys and her dragons?”

“I hope so,” Theon says gently. “I don’t think it’s as easy as all that, but your aunt wouldn’t have sent Lord Tyrion if she didn’t think he could help, and Asha could muster a navy out of twigs and ants if she had to.”

Robb smiles. “I believe that.” He hesitates again. “When your uncle is defeated…”

“Asha will rule the Iron Islands.” He’s thought long and hard about it, and it’s the only way. He sees that. “The ironborn will never accept me as one of their own. I may be Balon Greyjoy’s only living son, but I’ve been raised among wolves for far too long. The ironborn will always see me as a greenlander. Asha is a good leader. Her men are loyal to her, and others will follow. She’s not cruel like my uncle. Love always inspires more loyalty than fear. Your father taught me that.”

“Then what will you do?” Robb asks gently.

Theon shrugs. “I don’t know. Whatever your father will give me to do.”

Robb glances at his father, who is accepting the congratulations of his bannermen. “He loves you, Theon. We all do.”

Theon’s throat feels tight with emotion; he hides his face behind his cup so no one can see the tears gathering in his eyes.

.

When the feast is over, the brotherhood draw up a tent and fill it with ale to celebrate young Edric’s impending nuptials. Between their shouting and Tom’s music, it’s a wonder they don’t wake the whole camp. As it is, a handful of Northmen come in and out, happy to partake for a minute or an hour. The Smalljon is leading a handful of Umber and Glover men in a rousing rendition of “The Bear and the Maiden Fair” when another guest enters.

Darkstar.

Theon can’t stop his lip from curling as he registers the other man’s presence. 

“What is it?” Robb asks, and when Theon jerks his head, Robb sighs. “Just ignore him.”

“What is he even doing here?” Theon complains, turning away to nurse his cup.

“Edric is his kinsman, I imagine he’s here to congratulate him.”

“Darkstar hardly seems the type to congratulate anyone, but I meant, what is he doing  _ here _ , in Winterfell?”

“His cousin Allyria sent him to find Edric,” Robb says with the confidence of a man who believes it.

Theon puts a hand on his shoulder. “Oh, Robb. Oh, my sweet summer child. You really believe Darkstar would come all the way to Winterfell to look for his cousin? A cousin who, I might add, is all that stands between him and Starfall?”

Robb frowns. “You think he was lying?”

“I think there’s more to it than Darkstar is letting on. Look, it’s in his best interests if Edric disappeared. Why would he come looking for him?”

“They’re kinsmen; he was worried about him,” Robb says, still believing it.

“Arianne told us he resents Edric for being a boy and the lord of Starfall, and you saw how he reacted when you mentioned Edric the one time we met in Sunspear.”

Robb’s frown deepens. “So what are you saying, he came here to  _ kill _ \--”

“Robb Stark,” Darkstar says with a lazy smile, interrupting their conversation. “Theon Greyjoy.”

“Darkstar,” Theon says, his lip curling of its own volition.

“You must be so excited for your sister,” the other man says to Robb, reaching around him for a cup. “The Lady of Starfall. An impressive title.”

“I am more excited for her happiness,” Robb says, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “She loves your cousin dearly.”

“Yes. Everyone does.” Darkstar drinks deeply, and then smiles. “She is not the only Lady Dayne to be made soon.”

Theon stiffens at the implication. “That so?”

“Yes. Surely you’ve noticed.”

Theon swallows. “She’s said yes?”

“Well, not yet,” Darkstar says with a shrug. “But she will.”

It makes Theon’s blood boil, the  _ assuredness _ with which he says it. “Well, if she hasn’t said yes, then you don’t know for sure, do you?”

Darkstar laughs harshly. “Please, a girl like her? The daughter of a second son with nothing to inherit? Most girls like that could never dream of marrying a Dayne of Starfall.”

“You’re not a Dayne of Starfall, though, are you?” Robb says pleasantly. “You’re a Dayne of High Hermitage.”

Darkstar’s eyes flash, but after a long moment, he only bows before taking his leave.

“Prick,” Theon mutters.

Robb gives him a look.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“ _ What _ ?” he insists.

Robb rolls his eyes. “Look, as much as I hate to admit it, he’s  _ right _ ; he is a Dayne, even if he is of a cadet branch, and Jeyne’s father is a steward. He’s a better match than Vayon could have hoped to make for her.”

Theon’s heart begins to sink. “Well.”

“Vayon doesn’t  _ want _ her to marry Darkstar; I mean, can you imagine? But if someone  _ else _ were to come along, someone who wasn’t a right prick, someone that Ned Stark considered a  _ son _ …” He trails off, looking expectantly at Theon.

“You think I want to  _ marry _ her?” Theon huffs in surprise.

“Yes,” Robb says bluntly. “Or at the very least, you’d rather marry her than send her off to become Lady Darkstar.”

And, well, that’s  _ true _ , but not because he wants to  _ marry _ the Poole girl or anything. It’s like Robb said, he doesn’t want her to go all the way south and be Darkstar’s wife.  _ No _ woman deserves that. 

But  _ marriage? _

In truth, he’s given little thought to marriage. He’d always viewed it as a distant prospect, one that might not even happen to him. After deciding to acknowledge his sister as heir to the Iron Islands, that prospect has become even more distant. Who would want to marry the younger brother of the ruler of the Iron Islands? Who would want to marry Ned Stark’s penniless ward?

Besides, it’s such a commitment, marriage. You have to spend the  _ rest of your life _ with that person, unless one of you dies. Going to bed every night and waking up every morning to the same woman, having children with her…

His cock twitches and he curses himself for a lecher.

Still, the thought of Jeyne with that  _ idiot _ upsets him so much that he finds himself unable to make merry, and as soon as no one is looking, he slips out of the tent and into the keep, making for the steward’s apartments.

Vayon is surprised but not displeased to see him.

“Theon,” he says warmly. “What can I do for you?”

Theon clears his throat. He doesn’t know how to ask what he wants to ask without raising suspicion,  _ especially _ to Jeyne’s father. “I heard a rumor.”

“A rumor?” Vayon repeats. “What about?”

He clears his throat again. “About Jeyne. And Dark--Ser Gerold.”

Something flickers in Vayon’s eyes. “What rumor? Speak freely, Theon.”

The words come rushing out. “I heard they were to be married.”

Vayon relaxes, and it occurs to Theon that he thought the younger woman was about to say something much worse. “Oh. That. Well, I believe those are his intentions, though nothing has been agreed upon.”

“Nothing?” Theon asks, sharper than he means to. “He hasn’t...approached you?”

“Not formally, no.” 

“And if he does? What will be your answer?”

“Well, that depends on Jeyne.” Vayon tilts his head. “What’s going on, Theon?”

He makes himself scoff. “Nothing.”

A curious smile creeps over Vayon’s face. “She’s with Sansa now. If you’re looking for her.”

“I’m not,” Theon lies. 

“Of course,” Vayon says politely. “My mistake.”

Theon hesitates. “In Sansa’s room?”

“Yes,” Vayon says with the same polite smile.

Theon thanks him and makes for Sansa’s room. It’s not too late, and there’s a likelihood the two girls will still be awake. 

Yet as he raises his fist to knock on Sansa’s door, something stops him. What is he  _ doing _ here? Trying to ask Jeyne...what? If she’s going to marry Darkstar? Why it matters? 

Before he has the good sense to leave, the door opens wide, and there she is, looking at him with a surprised face.

“Theon!” she exclaims, catching herself on the doorframe. 

“Jeyne.” He swallows. Well, alright then. 

“What, erm, what are you doing here?” she asks, looking furtively around. 

Instead of giving a normal sounding answer, he blurts, “Why did you open the door?”

She stares at him. “I was going to take Lady out for a walk.”

“Oh.”

“What are you doing at the door?” she asks, which he knows is a logical follow-up question, but  _ dammit _ how is he supposed to answer that?

“I…” He falters. 

She watches him expectantly, eyes wide.

It is at that moment that Lady, standing behind Jeyne, lets out the weary sort of sigh that only dogs (and apparently direwolves) can let out before trying to push her way out into the corridor. But as with all dogs, Lady believes she is much smaller than she really is, so when she pushes her way out, she also pushes Jeyne straight into Theon.

He catches her easily, aware a beat too late that she’s pressed against his chest, her eyes wide as his arms encircle her. 

_ I could kiss her, _ he thinks madly, and steps away. 

She looks...not disappointed, not quite. But almost. “Lady!” she scolds, but the wolf makes a low yowl of irritation. Jeyne smiles. “I should take her out.” She looks back up at Theon. “Walk with me?”

And how is he to refuse? 

They walk side by side as they follow Lady out of the castle; she lopes several paces ahead of them, her enormous feet soft and silent on the stone. 

“What did you want?” Jeyne asks as they reach the way outside, the floor spattered with mud and snow that others have tracked in. “When you came to Sansa’s room just now?”

He hesitates. “I...heard something.”

“What did you hear?” 

It’s snowing outside, fat, soft flakes falling lazily from the sky. Jeyne reaches up to pull her hood over her head. 

“I heard you were going to marry Darkstar,” he says at last.

She blushes, and that is both exactly the answer he was looking for and exactly the answer he’d feared. “Well, he hasn’t asked yet.”

“But if he does?” he asks in a strained sort of voice. 

She bites her lip. “Well...if he asked...then yes, I’d marry him.”

His heart sinks. “Do you love him?”

Her blush deepens. “Not...yet.”

That gives him some relief. “Why would you marry him, though? If you don’t love him?”

She looks up at him with a bitter smile. “I’d be lucky to marry a knight from such a noble family. I’m just a steward’s daughter, remember?”

He winces. “That was unkind of me to say. I was...stupid.”

She hums. “On that, we can agree.” She starts forward, but he reaches out, grabbing her arm and stopping her in her tracks. 

“Jeyne,” he says, and his voice becomes strained again. “Is that the only reason you’d marry him?”

She lowers her eyes. “It’s not the only reason, but...well, I’m hardly likely to find a better husband, am I? And I’d be with Sansa this way. Safe in the south.”

“I’d keep you safe.” He doesn’t know why he says it, and his face turns red when he hears the words come out of his mouth. 

She turns red, too. “Is that an offer, Theon Greyjoy?”

“No,” he says, far too quickly and too bluntly.

Her face falls, and he curses himself for a fool. “Well then.” She wraps her cloak tighter around her, her voice turning cold. “I don’t really see what business it is of yours, then, who I marry.”

“But he’s…” Theon gestures vaguely.

“And you’re…” She also gestures vaguely. 

He frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Whatever you want it to mean,” she says loftily, and then she spins away to catch up with Lady. The direwolf gives Theon a look that seems to say,  _ You stepped in it this time, Greyjoy _ , before she trots off into the godswood. 


	73. JON XXI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is boring and transitional but necessary and I'm sorry for that, but it IS short.

They have been riding for three days when Jorah calls a halt. 

Jon, Jorah, Dany’s bloodriders, and Daario Naharis had volunteered to search for Dany, but the task has been harder than they thought. Dragons are not horses or deer or wolves, and cannot be tracked as easily. They’d had to ask people who claimed they’d seen the great beast, but half of them could not remember which direction Drogon flew and the other half was almost surely lying. 

Jorah dismounts now, kneeling down to inspect a charred pile of bones. 

“Our friend?” Daario asks, and that rankles Jon, for the dragons are not  _ Daario’s _ friends. 

“Don’t know anything else that can melt a ram’s horn,” Jorah says wryly, holding up the skull so they can see. 

“We’re on the right path, then.” Jon glances around the vale. It’s much prettier here than in Meereen. More open and lush, all rolling green hills and high stone cliffs. Drogon would like it here.

_ So why isn’t he still here? _

“Perhaps she’s tired of being queen,” Daario ventures as Jorah mounts his horse. “I don’t think she likes it very much.”

“She’s too smart to like it,” Jon says tersely.

“Maybe she’s flown somewhere else, somewhere far away from men like us.”

Jon and Jorah roll their eyes at each other.

“Men like you, you mean,” Jorah says unkindly.

Daario only smiles. “There are no men like me. Only me.”

Behind his back, Rakharo mimes gagging.

.

Daario is still talking and Jon and Jorah are feeling increasingly murderous when trampled grass brings all six men up short. Hoofprints mark the earth.

“An army,” Daario declares.

“Not an army,” Aggo growls. “A  _ khalasar. _ ”

Jon sees it now; a wide circle of hoofprints, and at their center, untouched grass. They circled someone here, surrounded them. 

_ Was it Dany? _

Something glints in the heart of the circle; when Jon comes closer, he sees something in the grass. He dismounts, reaching down for a silver ring studded with pearls. 

“The Dothraki have her,” he calls to the others. “A great  _ khalasar. _ ”

“Wonderful,” Daario says sarcastically. “We’ll just catch up with the hoard, then.”

“If she tells them who she is, they will not harm her,” Jhogo insists. “She is widow to a  _ khal _ ; it is this  _ khal _ ’s duty to take her back to Vaes Dothrak. It is known.”

“It is known,” Rakharo echoes.

“Vaes Dothrak?!” Daario exclaims in disbelief. “That’s across the Dothraki Sea!”

“Then we’d best get a move on,” Jon says coldly. “She is our queen, after all.”

“She is at that,” Daario agrees, but he still looks discomfited.

No sooner have they set off than Jon says, “I have a question for you, Daario Naharis.”

“Ask,” Daario says smoothly, for he likes to hear the sound of his own voice.

Jon takes a deep breath. “How long have you been working for the Sons of the Harpy?”

All color drains from Daario’s face. He looks at Jon, a poor attempt at bravado on his face, and when he meets Jon’s flinty gaze, he tries to bolt.

Aggo’s whip wraps around Daario’s ankle, yanking him off his startled mare. He hits the ground with an audible  _ crunch _ as his body’s full weight goes onto his arm. He rolls onto his front, gasping, but Jhogo and Rakharo are already dismounting, forcing him to his knees. 

Jon dismounts too, staring down at the other man with contempt. “I asked you a question.”

“I don’t,” Daario gasps. “I don’t work for them...Jon, you know me--”

Jon nods, and Jhogo breaks Daario’s other arm. The sellsword screams in agony, and Jon is reminded fleetingly, horribly, of another man Dany had loved, brought to his knees with broken arms before his life was taken from him.

_ They both tried to hurt Dany, _ he reminds himself.  _ And now they never will. _

“Answer me,” Jon says when Daario’s screams have subsided.

“Since Yunkai!” the sellsword sobs. “Since I turned on my brothers in arms! I sent word to Meereen that I would bring Daenerys to them. I seduced her and made it look like Hizdahr zo Loraq was their leader.”

“Was he one of the Sons of the Harpy?” Jon asks sharply.

Daario shakes his head, weeping. “No. He knew some of the ringleaders, but he would not involve himself. I was the one to call them off and arrange the attack in the fighting pit. I made it look like him so you would all think he was the leader.”

“You pretended to help Daenerys escape. Why not kill her on the dais?” That’s the one question that’s given Jon pause. It would have been so easy for Daario to kill her once the killings began, but he’d waited.

Daario shakes his head again. “I wanted to be sure before I did anything. If I killed her too quickly, the five of you would have slit my throat then and there.” He attempts a smile, but he’s shaking too hard. 

Jon’s lips twist in disgust. “How much were they paying you?”

At this, Daario does smile. “More than you could ever dream, Jon Snow.”

Jon nods, and Rakharo slices his  _ arakh _ across Daario’s throat. 

The sellsword goes limp in Jhogo and Rakharo’s grip, and when they release him, he falls forward, landing on the ground with a thud. 

“You waited too long to kill him,” Aggo complains. “All he does is talk, all day long.”

“I almost killed him yesterday,” Jhogo agrees. 

“I almost did too,” Jon admits, climbing back on his horse. “I’d hoped to have him confess in front of Daenerys, but…”

“He would’ve slit our throats while we slept,” Jorah finishes. 

“Yes.”

“What will happen now? With the Sons of the Harpy?” Rakharo asks.

“Difficult to say,” Jorah admits. “Daario’s death will not stop them, but Daenerys’s disappearance will embolden them. Tyrion, Oberyn, and Missandei will maintain order for as long as they can…” He hesitates. “But the longer Daenerys and her dragons are away, the weaker our position. Astapor and Yunkai are struggling as well; if the masters can combine forces, they could overthrow us.”

Aggo spits on the ground and mutters a Dothraki curse. Jon doesn’t know the word, but he understands the sentiment well enough.


	74. SANSA VI

The closer the wedding draws, the less sleep Sansa seems to get. Her every waking moment is filled with the wedding--what she’ll wear, what her family will wear, what will be served at the feast, what her first time being with a man will feel like.

She’s glad that she and Edric will be married so soon, for the time they spent apart felt like  _ ages _ , yet less than a month is simply not enough time to prepare for a wedding.

She’s grateful for Jeyne, who has temporarily moved into her room to help with the wedding preparations. Not that the two girls weren’t inseparable before, but now Jeyne doesn’t have to stay with her until late in the night before going all the way back to the steward’s quarters. Now, they can simply throw aside the wedding dress they’re making and crawl into bed before waking up and starting afresh. 

She also likes having Jeyne nearby because the other girl’s presence is so soothing. Whenever Sansa can feel herself start to panic, Jeyne is always ready with a piece of gossip or a supposition about this person or that. Sansa gets so distracted that she forgets she was panicking at all. It’s one of the many things she loves about her friend.

She’s quiet today, however, and that worries Sansa. The wedding is in three days, and now is  _ not _ the time for Jeyne to become as distraught as Sansa. She knows it’s selfish, but how is she supposed to comfort  _ Jeyne _ when  _ she’s _ the one about to get married?

“Is everything alright?” Sansa prods. 

Jeyne sighs, sewing the tiny pearls to the wedding dress’s sleeve. “Yes.”

“You seem...distracted.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be  _ sorry _ ,” Sansa huffs. “Just tell me what’s going on.”

Jeyne hesitates. “Well, I didn’t want to say anything because...well, I didn’t want you to worry about me right now.”

That troubles her. “What’s there to worry about?”

“Not  _ worry, _ exactly…”

“Jeyne, tell me!”

The other girl sighs. “Darkstar asked me to marry him.”

Sansa has no idea how to respond. On the one hand, Darkstar is a better match than Jeyne could hope to make otherwise. He’s a knight from an old and honorable family, and becoming the lady of High Hermitage would put Jeyne in close proximity to Sansa. 

On the other...Darkstar is...well... _ Darkstar. _

“Oh?” Sansa asks in a high voice, keeping her face carefully devoid of emotion.

Jeyne suddenly bursts into tears.

Sansa abandons her work, moving to kneel beside her friend. Jeyne hugs her, crying.

“What’s wrong?” Sansa asks softly, stroking Jeyne’s head. 

“I don’t know what to do! I don’t love him, but your own mother said she didn’t love Lord Stark until long after they were wed, and look at them now! And yet, how could I ever love Darkstar? He’s...he’s…”

“A bit unorthodox?” Sansa offers. 

“ _ Insane! _ ” Jeyne wails.

Sansa winces. “Well...perhaps a little.”

Jeyne sobs afresh. “I can’t marry him! But if I don’t marry him, I’ll spend the rest of my life as a...a steward’s daughter.”

“You could come to Starfall with me,” Sansa offers.

Jeyne’s smile is bitter. “As your maid.”

“As my friend,” Sansa protests, but she feels a stab of guilt, for what else would Jeyne be? 

Jeyne opens her mouth to retort, but Rickon bursts into the room just then, his eyes wide.

“Sansa, Jeyne, come quick, Theon’s  _ fighting Darkstar _ !”

“Fighting him!” Jeyne exclaims, leaping to her feet, the dress forgotten. She and Sansa hitch their skirts, following Rickon as he races out of the castle. 

“What’s happened?!” Sansa asks her little brother, struggling to keep up with him.

“Theon challenged Darkstar to a duel--the winner gets Jeyne!” Rickon throws back over his shoulder.

“ _ What _ ?!”

“Come on, first blood has already been shed!”

Jeyne screams and puts on a fresh burst of speed.

Sansa can hardly make sense of it. Darkstar is the type to challenge another man to a duel, and to accept a challenge in return, but for  _ Theon _ to issue a challenge? For  _ Jeyne _ ?

What is going on?

Sure enough, as they spill out into the godswood, Sansa hears the clang of swords, and through the trees she can see a small crowd gathered around the two fighters. What looks to be all of the Brotherhood is watching, as well as Edric, Robb, Bran, and Arya.

Jeyne looks as if she’s ready to run in between the two men, but Beric pulls her back.

“I would not advise that, my lady,” he says gently. 

“Stop it!” she shouts. “Stop it, both of you!”

Darkstar pays her no mind, but Theon looks up, and this proves to be a mistake; the knight knocks the sword from Theon’s hand, and he curses before raising his shield to block an oncoming blow. 

“I tried to talk him from this madness,” Edric says miserably. “But he was insistent.”

As Darkstar advances on Theon, Sansa clutches Edric’s arm, screaming with Jeyne when all looks lost. But Theon takes his shield in both hands and bashes Darkstar in the head with it, and the other man reels backwards. The brotherhood cheer, encouraging Theon as he swings again and bloodies Darkstar’s mouth. He uses his shield to block another blow and then thrusts his sword; Theon dodges to the side, avoiding the blow, but this puts him back on the defensive, using his shield to block blows rather than deliver them. 

“When will they stop?” Sansa asks, terrified.

“When one of them yields,” Robb says grimly.

“Why are they fighting over Jeyne?”

Robb gives her a curious look. “Do you really not know?”

She doesn’t, and it fills her with more guilt. Has there been something between Theon and Jeyne this whole time? Is that what Jeyne’s tears were about?

_ How blind am I? _

Too late, Theon misses Darkstar’s knee; it hits him in the groin, and while Theon is doubled over, Darkstar uses the hilt of his sword to butt Theon in the head. The ironborn goes down, groaning as Darkstar aims his sword.

“ _ DON’T!” _ Jeyne screams, now struggling against the combined forces of Beric and Lem Lemoncloak. “Don’t, please, I beg you, leave him!”

“Sweet words, my lady,” Darkstar says without looking at her, “but we made an agreement. Do you yield, Greyjoy?”

Theon doesn’t respond. Darkstar thrusts his sword, and Jeyne’s shriek is deafening, but Theon rolls out of the way at the last second, snatching up his fallen sword. He leaps to his feet, meeting Darkstar’s blade over and over in a steely song. Theon thrusts and his sword catches in Darkstar’s shield. The brotherhood groan, but then he manages to knock the sword from Darkstar’s hand and they cheer. 

He does not have time to wrench his sword loose, however, because Darkstar swings his shield, forcing Theon to leap back as the other man comes at him. The sword flies loose, too far for Theon to catch it; he dodges and ducks, but Darkstar is faster and angrier, and when his shield hits Theon in the head, the other man weaves unsteadily. 

He hits Theon across the head a couple more times, drawing blood from his nose and mouth and purpling his eye. Jeyne is like to faint, but she stands still and breathless as Theon sinks to the ground.

“Do you yield?” Darkstar asks, raising his shield.

Theon spits out a mouthful of blood. “I yield,” he slurs.

Darkstar lowers the shield, and Jeyne finally breaks free of Beric and Lem, rushing forward and hurling herself on the ground beside Theon. His face is a bloody mess, but she rests his head on her lap and strokes his hair. 

Sansa feels her stomach turn. Has this been going on the whole time? Was she the last to know? 

_ I tried to keep them apart all those years ago, and now they’ve found their way back together. Maybe he’s not a lord or a knight...but he cares for her. And maybe that’s enough. _

“Jeyne,” Darkstar says with some irritation. “Leave him.”

She ignores him, using her sleeve to clean the blood from Theon’s face. His eyes are unfocused, and Sansa would be surprised if he didn’t have a concussion.

“ _ Jeyne, _ ” Darkstar says again, losing his patience. “He lost. I won. You’re to come with me now.”

She looks up at that, her face flashing with anger. “I never agreed to the terms of your stupid fight. Go away, Gerold.”

He looks taken aback. “But I  _ won. _ ”

“You won the fight,” Thoros says with a twinkle in his eye. “But it appears you lost the girl.”

Darkstar gnashes his teeth. “Jeyne, you should reconsider. Greyjoy’s not half the man I am.”

“You’re right,” Jeyne agrees coldly. “He’s twice the man you are.”

Concussed as Theon is, he smiles.

Darkstar looks furious. “I did  _ not _ come all the way to this bloody frozen wasteland to be disgraced!”

“It appears you did,” Robb says cheerfully. 

Darkstar lunges for his sword, but the brotherhood grab him before he can get to it; Anguy kicks the sword away with a stern look.

“Cousin,” Edric says sadly, “you ought to go home now.”

Darkstar breaks free of the brotherhood’s grasp, jabbing a finger at the boy. “You may be the Lord of Starfall, but you are still a boy, and I will not take orders from you.”

“You will,” Edric says with a coldness Sansa’s never heard before. “To disobey your liege lord is to commit treason.”

Darkstar looks as if he’d happily cut down his liege lord then and there, but he must realize the odds are stacked against him; he’d never get past the brotherhood to get to Edric. Fuming, he storms out of the godswood. 

“He’ll be back,” Edric says darkly. 

“But he’s gone for now,” says Anguy.

It takes several of the men to carry Theon into the castle, where Maester Luwin will tend to his wounds. Jeyne’s dress is stained with blood, but she has a dreamy look upon her face.

“Oh, Sansa,” she murmurs. “Isn’t it romantic?”

Personally, Sansa thinks it would be  _ more _ romantic if Theon had won...but she supposes there’s a kind of romance to losing the fight yet winning the lady love’s heart. 

“Yes,” she says, squeezing her friend’s hand. “Very romantic.”

Not a word she’d ever thought to associate with Theon Greyjoy...but there’s a first time for everything, she supposes.

.

Three days come and go, and suddenly the morning of the wedding dawns. Sansa is jittery with nerves, and her condition worsens with every passing hour. The worst of these is when Jeyne disappears; when she finally reappears, Sansa can’t help shouting, “Where have you been?!”

“Sorry,” Jeyne says, blushing. “I went to see Theon.”

Desperate for an excuse not to think about the wedding, Sansa asks after him.

“He’s well. His eye is blackened and he’s bruised something awful, but he’ll heal. Maester Luwin said he ought not come to the wedding, though.”

Privately, Sansa is relieved to hear it. “I wonder where Darkstar went.”

“Probably back to Dorne,” Jeyne says, shrugging. The knight had left the day he’d beaten Theon and lost Jeyne, riding out the south gate and making for the kingsroad. Edric had written to his cousin Allyria to tell her to keep an eye on their cousin, for he feared he would be up to something. 

“What do you think he’d do?” Sansa had asked.

Edric had shaken his head. “That’s the trouble with Gerold; you never know.”

Jeyne, however, doesn’t seem too concerned with what her former suitor is up to. 

“Are you going to marry him?” Sansa presses. 

Jeyne frowns. “Darkstar?”

“No! Theon!”

“Oh!” Jeyne flushes. “I don’t know. I mean, he hasn’t asked. He’s barely been conscious when I’ve gone to see him, and when he is, he doesn’t make much sense. He has a concussion.”

“Yes,” Sansa says impatiently, “But if he  _ does _ ask?”

Jeyne bites her lip. “Well...if he asks...then yes.”

Sansa feels her heart start to sink. If Jeyne marries Theon, she won’t be anyone of note, and she’ll be here forever while Sansa will be all the way in the south. 

_ But she’d be happy, _ Sansa reminds herself.  _ She’d never have been happy as Lady Darkstar. _

“Anyway, today isn’t about my wedding, it’s about yours,” Jeyne reminds her. 

Sansa groans. “I don’t want to think about it.”

“Why not?! You’ve thought about it your whole  _ life _ .” 

“That’s why I don’t want to think about it. What if something goes wrong?”

“Something probably will,” Jeyne says cheerfully. “But that doesn’t mean it will be a bad wedding.”

“What if it is? What if Edric decides not to marry me?”

Jeyne rolls her eyes. “Sansa.”

“Well, it could happen!”

“It couldn’t, because he’s besotted with you. Now, let’s get you into a milk bath.”

.

When night has fallen and the full moon is high in the sky, Sansa leaves the warmth of her room for the wintry night. Father meets her at the door, a sad smile on his face.

“Are you upset?” she asks as he puts the maiden’s cloak over her shoulders.

“No. I’m happy for you, love. It’s only…” He touches her cheek. “I remember the day you were born. You were pink and squalling, but I thought you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Hard to believe that that newborn babe stands before me now, a woman grown and about to be wed.”

A lump forms in her throat. “I’ll still be your daughter, you know.”

“I know.” He kisses her forehead. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” 

Arm in arm, father and daughter lead the bridal party out to the godswood, their way lit by dozens of lanterns. Edric, her family, and all the Northern lords stand gathered before the heart tree, all of them watching expectantly as she enters their midst.

Aunt Lyanna comes forward in blue damask trimmed with white fur. “Who comes before the old gods this night?” she intones.

“Sansa of House Stark comes here to be wed,” Father replies. “A woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?”

Edric steps forward, looking magnificent in the white and purple colors of his house. “Edric of House Dayne, Lord of Starfall. Who gives her?”

“Eddard of House Stark, who is her father.”

“Lady Sansa,” Aunt Lyanna begins, “will you take this man?”

“I take this man,” Sansa agrees. Together, she and Edric step forward, clasping hands and kneeling in the snow. They bow their heads in silent prayer.

_ Make me a good wife, _ Sansa prays.  _ Make me a good Lady of Starfall. Make me fruitful and bear many children for my husband, sons and daughters who will bring honor to the names Dayne and Stark. _

The moment of prayer ended, the couple rises. Father takes off Sansa’s maiden’s cloak, and Edric steps forward to lay his cloak of protection over her shoulders. When she turns to face him, he kisses her, his lips warm against the cold night air.

_ I am his wife now, _ she thinks happily.  _ I am Sansa Dayne of Starfall. _

When she pulls back, everyone is smiling, but none bigger and brighter than Edric. He lifts her into his arms and carries her to the keep, the Northmen cheering and singing behind them. 

“We are married now,” he says softly.

“Yes,” she agrees, beaming. “But we won’t be  _ truly _ man and wife until we are bedded.”

_ “Sansa!” _ he hisses, flushing.

She laughs. “Don’t be so modest, husband mine!”

He shakes his head, cheeks still pink. “And they say Dornish women’s blood runs hot.”

“I am a Dornish woman now,” she says primly. “I’m married to a Dornishman, aren’t I?”

He smiles. “That you are, my lady. That you are.”

  
  
  



	75. JON XXII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is very short and a lot of things happen in it. It's probably very bad but I just wanted to get Jon and Dany OUT of Meereen.

As it turns out, Dany is not in need of rescuing.

The five men ride into Vaes Dothrak well after nightfall. There’s a great fire in the heart of the city, one that has the attention of every Dothraki in the city. 

“It’s the temple of the  _ dosh khaleen _ !” Rakharo shouts, and they ride hard, Jon’s heart pounding. Dany should be there now, with the other wives of dead  _ khals. _

All around the temple, Dothraki are kneeling, faces towards the ground. When Jon walks through them to see, he understands why.

For standing at the doorway to the temple, naked and untouched by the flames, is Dany.

.

“What happened?” he asks as the ashes drift into the grey morning light. The  _ dosh khaleen _ have found clothes for Dany, sandsilk and riding leathers befitting a  _ khaleesi _ , and they’ve made a hearty stew of goat, carrots, and onions. Jon and Dany sip it out of earthen bowls now, watching smoke rise from the ruins of the temple.

“Drogon carried me a few days’ ride from Meereen. He left to go hunting, and while he was gone, a  _ khalasar _ found me. They meant to make me a slave, but when I told them who I was, they brought me to Vaes Dothrak to join the  _ dosh khaleen. _ The  _ khals _ were judging whether I should become a  _ dosh khaleen _ or whether they should take turns raping me when I turned over every brazier in the temple.” She gives a small smile of satisfaction. “They thought I was some stupid little girl. They did not know I was the blood of the dragon.”

“You have a reputation for destroying those who underestimate you.”

She turns to him, her smile fading. “What about you? What happened after I left?”

“Not much,” he admits. “The Sons of the Harpy withdrew long enough for us to leave the city, but I don’t doubt they were patching up their wounds and waiting to strike again. We left Tyrion and Oberyn in charge--they seemed like good choices.”

“They are,” she agrees. And then she asks the question Jon has been dreading. “And...Daario Naharis?”

Jon sets aside his bowl of stew. “Dead...and an ally of the Harpy.”

Dany turns steely eyes on him. “Truly?”

“Truly. He confessed to it, Dany. Tyrion long suspected it, and Daario confirmed my suspicions on the journey here. He was working for the Sons of the Harpy before he even met you.”

She looks angry...and then wilts, setting aside her own bowl. “The Undying prophesied I would be betrayed three times. Once for love, once for gold, once for blood.” She sighs. “I suppose it was too much to hope that a sellsword would love a woman more than gold.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he truly means it. “You deserved better.”

“I did. And I will have it.” She straightens up. “We ride today, Jon. I must restore peace to Meereen for once and all, and then we must sail west.”

His heart lifts at that. “You are ready, then?”

“Yes. I put it off for far too long,” she admits. “I played the well-mannered queen, I put on my floppy ears. I made concession after concession trying to broker peace. That ends today. If they will not make peace, I will make it myself.” 

.

Sitting astride Drogon before the Mother of Mountains, the sacred mountain of the Dothraki, Dany makes every Dothraki rider her bloodrider. 

“I will ask more of you than any  _ khal _ has ever asked of his  _ khalasar _ ! Will you ride the wooden horses across the black salt sea? Will you kill my enemies in their iron suits and tear down their stone houses? Will you give me the Seven Kingdoms, the gift Khal Drogo promised me before the Mother of Mountains? Are you with me now and always?”

The Dothraki roar with approval, but none louder than Drogon himself.

With the biggest  _ khalasar _ the world has ever seen at their backs, the last Targaryens head for Meereen.

.

The city is under siege when they reach it. The Masters, Jon can tell from the harpy sails. At least the city’s defenses seem to be holding up. Ships block the harbor, the docks are afire, and trebuchets are launching rock and flame into the city, but the walls have not been breached. 

Yet.

While Dany and Drogon set fire to the enemy ships, Jon leads the Dothraki to the city gate. What little infantry and cavalry the Masters command are outside the gate, waiting for the farmers and peasants who live outside the city walls, but nothing could have prepared them for a Dothraki hoard. The Dothraki are better fighters than anything the Masters could muster once all their slaves were freed, and they cut down the harpy’s men easily. Jon waves to the guards at the gate, calling up in Valyrian.

“Jon Snow!” the Unsullied at the gate cry out, and then they are opening the gate and letting the Dothraki through.

Jon rides to the Great Pyramid, taking note of the ash and rubble throughout the city. Many buildings have been affected by the siege, but the people themselves seem alright. Many of them cheer once they realize what’s happening, crying out for their  _ mhysa  _ as the dragon passes overhead. 

Jon reaches the Great Pyramid at the same time as his aunt, though he enters from below where Drogon alights from above. He meets her in the council chamber, embracing her once he’s climbed those bloody stairs. 

“We were just telling our queen how grateful we are to see her again,” Tyrion says, clearing his throat.

“Thanks to Jon Snow,” Oberyn acknowledges. “And Ser Jorah and her bloodriders, of course. Was that a Dothraki hoard I saw?”

“My new  _ khalasar, _ ” Dany confirms, turning to face them all. “All of the Dothraki united under one banner.”

“The Unsullied and the Dothraki,” Tyrion muses. “A formidable army, to be sure. Once Lady Greyjoy has brought her fleet, we will be ready to sail for Westeros.”

“Then let us make ready, so that nothing will keep us here longer than necessary.”

.

By the time the fleet has arrived, all signs of siege have been removed. The harpy’s burned fleet has been cleared from the bay, the dead bodies dragged to funeral pyres and mass graves, and the rubble pulled from the streets. In their place are men, women, and children, cheering as Asha Greyjoy rides through the winding streets to the Great Pyramid.

Dany meets Asha Greyjoy in the throne room. She and Jon had looked out at the ocean when Grey Worm reported her coming, and on the horizon was the biggest fleet any of them had ever seen.

“Will it be enough?” Dany had asked.

“More than enough, Your Grace.”

Jon has never seen Asha Greyjoy himself, but as soon as she comes swaggering into the great hall, he can see the resemblances between her and Theon. They are of a similar build and coloring, and the smile on her face looks just like her brother’s. A secretive smile, as if she’s laughing at a joke none of them have heard yet.

“Queen Daenerys,” she greets, sinking to one knee. “I have brought you a fleet of ironborn and Northmen from White Harbor, each one loyal to you.”

“And you have my thanks for it. Your uncle Euron rules the Iron Islands now, is that correct, my lady?”

“It is.”

“It is for now,” Dany corrects. “But not for much longer.”

Asha Greyjoy smiles up at her. “Not for much longer,” she agrees, rising.

“Theon,” Jon blurts, and Asha looks at him. “Is he…?”

“My brother is well,” Asha says kindly. “And he has no desire to rule the Iron Islands. He is a stranger to our ways, and would rather serve Lord Stark.”

That surprises Jon, who remembers a swaggering youth who spoke often of ruling the Iron Islands someday. What changed?

Asha turns back to Dany. “The Northmen await your coming, my queen, as do the Dornish, the Riverlands, and the Vale. My ships wait to carry you home.”

“How soon can they be ready to depart?”

“This very day, if that is your desire.”

“It is.”

.

By late afternoon, every Unsullied, Dothraki, and horse is on a ship. Dany leaves behind a council of her Meereenese advisors to keep the peace and rule until the people can choose a new leader. 

“But Your Grace,” the Shavepate protests. “You are our queen, the Great Mother...how will we survive without you? What if the Sons of the Harpy rise up again?”

“Their numbers are too small to rise up again and hope to win, and you will survive just fine. If thousands of generations of slaves could endure in chains, they can endure a thousand more without them. Have faith.”

When the last soldier has boarded, when the last order has been given, when the last farewell has been said, Dany climbs the gangplank to her ship. The  _ Black Wind _ has the command, and soon the whole fleet is following it out of the Bay of Dragons and towards the Summer Sea.

Overhead, the dragons soar above the fleet, calling to each other in happy, shrieking sounds. Dany looks up at them and then at Jon, tears in her eyes.

“It’s finally happening,” she says, her voice soft and full of emotion. “We are finally going home.”

_ Home. _ Can it really be true? After so many months, years even, after one failed attempt after another, can they really be headed for Westeros? Will he really see his mother and uncle and cousins again?

He squeezes her hand, and together, they watch the horizon.


	76. CASSANA VII

Everyone is quiet for a long moment after Varys reports the news. 

It’s Cassie who breaks the silence. “Are you certain, my lord?”

“My little birds do not lie,” the Master of Whisperers says primly. 

Cassie leans back in her seat. “Once Daenerys lands, we will be surrounded by enemies on all sides. We already know the North will ally with Daenerys, and Dorne will likely follow. The Riverlands are ruled by Catelyn Stark’s brother, and she is the regent of the Vale, which means Daenerys will have all their strength, too.” She drums her fingers on the arm of her chair. Once, she had felt very small and scared in this chair. Now, she only feels tired. “Asha and Theon Greyjoy have joined the North, haven’t they?”

“They have, Your Grace,” Varys says politely.

“Then Euron Greyjoy is unlikely to make an alliance with the dragon queen?”

“I would say so. Asha and Theon have a stronger claim to the Seastone chair than their uncle, and allying with Daenerys would mean forfeiting the throne.”

Cassie nods, considering. “Well, that’s something. My father always said one united army was harder to defeat than five small ones.”

“With respect, Your Grace,” Uncle Stannis says uneasily, “that may be true when the armies are smaller...but when the armies are as great as the western army and the dragon queen’s army…”

She pauses. “What do you suggest then, lord uncle?”

He shifts. “It would be in your best interest to win allies. Tywin Lannister and Euron Greyjoy command the west, but there will likely be many western lords who hate following the orders of an ironborn. If you can get word to them that you will offer a full pardon and elevate them should they change their allegiance, that would serve you well. The Riverlands and the Vale will be hard-pressed to respond to you over Catelyn Stark, but pardons may be offered for them, too. Dorne is your best hope. They still despise the Lannisters; if you can promise them Tywin Lannister and Gregor Clegane--”

“Daenerys will have already promised them Tywin Lannister and Gregor Clegane,” Uncle Renly interrupts. 

“Renly--”

“It’s true. Everyone knows what the Martells want.”

“Then what do you suggest?” Cassie asks. When Uncle Renly says nothing, she scoffs. “So that’s it, then? My small council has no suggestions?”

“I think, Your Grace,” Varys says gently, “it may be time you look outside the realm for aid.”

“A foreign army? Then I’m no better than the dragon queen with her Unsullied and her Dothraki.”

“Not an ideal solution, perhaps,” Varys acknowledges. “But there are many sellsword companies for hire.”

“They are men without honor,” Cassie says with conviction. “Besides, my father put the treasury so deeply in debt it’s a wonder we have anything left. Tywin Lannister has all the realm’s gold.”

“There is no easy answer here, my queen,” Uncle Stannis says in a strained voice. “You have too many enemies with too great of forces. You will suffer tremendous losses no matter what.” He hesitates, and she knows she isn’t going to like what comes at the end of that pause. “Your mother and half brother would not harm you, I am sure of that. If you could make a treaty with them…”

“Bend the knee?” Her voice is sharp and cold in the chamber, and the other men all look down at their laps. 

“I don’t like it anymore than you do,” Uncle Stannis says darkly. “I’ve worked hard to keep you on your throne...but we lack the numbers, Your Grace. The Stormlands and the Reach may have been enough against the westermen and the ironborn, but they will be no match for Unsullied, Dothraki, and three dragons, if the tales can be believed.”

“This, coming from the man who held Storm’s End when it was under siege for  _ a year _ ?” she asks incredulously.

Across the table, Mace Tyrell shifts uncomfortably, for he had been the leader of that siege. “That was a long time ago,” he mumbles.

“Not so long that my memory has forgotten the gnawing hunger that came with war,” Uncle Stannis says darkly. 

“I was only a boy...but I remember,” Uncle Renly agrees. “Storm’s End was better suited to a siege, anyway. King’s Landing will not fare so well.”

“I don’t believe what I’m hearing,” Cassie says in disbelief. “My uncles have turned coward, is that it?”

“Your Grace,” Uncle Stannis says firmly. “If this were merely a matter of pride, we would not shy at a siege...but it is more than that. When your father died, you fell into our protection. We are trying to protect you, my queen, you and every man, woman, and child that will shelter behind the city walls for protection when the dragon queen lands.”

Varys clears his throat. “Your Grace, I have sworn to serve the realm above all else...and I tell you now, declaring war against Daenerys Targaryen is folly. Her army can and will crush ours; the only reason she will spare you, I imagine, is because your half brother Jon Snow fights by her side. Give her a reason to kill you, though, and she’ll take it, I have no doubt. Do you think she has forgotten who your father was, or what monstrosities happened under his reign?”

Cassie reddens. “It was war--”

“We are  _ at _ war,” Varys says with more passion than she’s ever heard from the eunuch. “Pray, what do you think will happen if Robert Baratheon’s daughter openly defies the dragon queen? Even with your mother and brother being who they are, do you think Daenerys will suffer the impudence? Her father certainly did not.”

“I will not stand for this talk, Varys!” she shouts, but her hands are shaking. 

“Perhaps Your Grace needs time to think on her plan of action,” Uncle Renly says smoothly. “In the meantime, Stannis, perhaps you would send for Tommen and Myrcella? I mislike the idea of leaving them on Dragonstone.”

Uncle Stannis bows his head. “I shall send for my wife and daughter as well. Perhaps, Your Grace, given the circumstances, you would consider opening your gates to the inhabitants of Dragonstone?”

“Of course,” she says flatly. “The gates of King’s Landing are open to all loyal subjects.” She rises, the men of her small council leaping to their feet. “Uncle Renly, give me your arm.”

While the others tend to their own work, she takes Uncle Renly’s arm and walks about the garden with him. The first bite of winter is upon them, the air colder than it’s been in years. 

“How fares Lady Margaery?” she asks, spying a rosebush.

“Very well, Your Grace, thank you. It was kind of you to think of her.”

Lady Margaery brings a light and life to court that Cassie sorely lacks. Where the queen is stern and serious, Margaery is pretty and charming.

_ I was pretty and charming once, too. Everyone said so. Before my mother’s treason was revealed and my father died and I inherited this sorry kingdom. _

“Uncle, do you think I should surrender if the occasion calls for it?”

Uncle Renly is quiet for a long moment, thinking. “Your Grace will remember her history lessons.”

“Of course.”

“And the lessons about the conquest.”

She mislikes this already. “Yes…”

“So she will remember her ancestor, Torrhen Stark, the King Who Knelt?”

She releases his arm, breaking away to pluck a rose. She tucks it in her uncle’s lapel, securing it with his stag pin. “I remember him.”

“Do you know why he knelt?”

She sighs. “Everybody knows. He had just heard of the Field of Fire and did not want to get himself or his men killed, so he bent the knee. What of it?”

“There is no shame in kneeling if it is for the right reasons,” he says gently. Clasping his hands behind his back, he continues, “Your Grace will remember her other ancestor, Argella Durrandon.”

Cassie always liked the stories of Argella. “The Last Storm Queen.”

“That she was,” Uncle Renly agrees. “Do you remember why they called her that?”

“She refused to bend the knee to the Targaryens.”

“Yes. And afraid for their lives, her men stripped her, bound her in chains, and presented her to Orys Baratheon as a token of their loyalty.”

The smile fades from Cassie’s face as she looks up at her uncle, realizing. 

“Mind your lessons,” he says carefully. He bows, leaving her.

The first winds of winter shake the bushes, and Cassie sits down on a bench, shivering from more than just the cold. 


	77. LYANNA XXII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BACKSTREET'S BACK, ALRIGHT
> 
> I put this fic on hiatus for a while because in all honesty I was tired of getting shitty reviews. I don't mean "wah wah no one is paying attention to me" or anything, I mean that after my repeated entreaties to not receive constructive criticism, I was still getting it. That's assuming people weren't being downright rude and demanding to know why I a) am not a misogynist or b) didn't make their ship the primary focus of this fic. It was just a bunch of little things that ate away at me until I started dreading posting these chapters because I KNEW I was going to get an annoying comment, and that no matter how many nice comments I'd get, the bad ones would stick with me. I had also gotten really hard back into another fandom and abandoning this fic wasn't a hard decision.
> 
> I recently started rereading ASoIaF again and it made me kind of miss this fic. And then I was talking to Emily and I decided to give this fic another shot.
> 
> All this to say...I really do want to finish this fic, and I really want to have a fun time doing it. So if you are considering leaving a review that would interfere with said fun time...please don't.
> 
> Biggest of shout-outs to Emily for encouraging me to write this and helping me talk it through. This is for you, moon of my life <3

Melisandre wakes her in the early dawn. 

“My queen,” she says softly. “Come look into the fires.”

“Must I?” Lyanna asks, more than a little irritated at being woken so early. Beside her, Ros slumbers on, blissfully unconscious.

“You will want to look. Come.”

Groaning, Lyanna gets out of bed, stumbling barefoot to the fire. She lets Melisandre draw her down before it.

“Look into the flames, my queen.”

Lyanna does, eyes bleary from sleep...but as she looks closer, she sees why Melisandre brought her here. The flames offer her a vision of Jon and a silver haired woman at his side, standing at the prow of a ship. The kraken and mermaid fly behind them, and all around are ships carrying warriors cut from stone and steel. And there, soaring high in the sky, are three dragons.

“It’s happening,” Lyanna breathes. “They’re really coming.”

“At last, thanks be to R’hllor,” Melisandre praises.

Lyanna finds herself tearing up. After years of waiting, Jon is  _ finally _ coming home, and bringing the prince that was promised and an army fit to meet the Army of the Dead in battle. 

“I should go to Dragonstone,” Lyanna decides. “That’s where they’ll likely land. It’s where Aegon and his sisters began their conquest, it’s where Daenerys was born. If I leave now, I can meet Jon and Daenerys there.”

“Just so, my queen.”

Lyanna goes back to the bed, gently shaking Ros awake. “I’m sorry, my sweet, but I need your help.”

“Help with what?” Ros asks blearily, sitting up and yawning.

“We are headed for Dragonstone.”

Ros climbs out of bed, pulling on her robe and going to rouse the other ladies-in-waiting. Lyanna shimmies out of her nightgown and into her smallclothes; Melisandre helps her into a plain woollen dress that will keep her warm on the road to White Harbor. That’s where she’ll go; from there, she can sail to Dragonstone. Once Stannis has heard that Daenerys and her army are on the way, he’ll likely order the island evacuated, so they shouldn’t encounter any trouble on the way.

_ Jon is coming. _

Her ladies are quiet and reserved, just having woken up, but Lyanna is full of energy. It will not be a short journey to Dragonstone, she knows, and longer still for Jon and Daenerys, but he’s so close she can almost feel him in her arms again. 

_ My son is coming back to me. _

She sends for breakfast, more for her ladies than for herself; the kitchens send up hot porridge with brown sugar, stewed apples, bread fresh from the oven, and bacon still sizzling from the pan. Her ladies fall to eagerly; Lyanna helps herself to a few bites before asking Wynafryd to speak to her brother about an escort to White Harbor. Mouth full, Wynafryd nods and goes in search of her brother while Lyanna goes in search of her own.

Ned has always been an early riser, and she is grateful for his fastidious routine now. She finds him in the great hall, feeding morsels from his plate to Ghost. Catelyn sits beside him, reading a raven’s scroll; when she sees Lyanna, she almost startles.

“Lyanna, there has been word from Dorne; Daenerys’s fleet--”

“--is coming here? I know.” 

“How did you know?” Catelyn gapes.

Lyanna takes her seat beside Ned. “I saw it in the fires. I’m leaving to meet them on Dragonstone.”

“Leaving?”

“Today.”

“Today?” Ned repeats. “So soon?”

Finding she has an appetite after all, Lyanna heps herself to the bacon on his plate. “I’ve been waiting for this for  _ years _ , Ned. I will not be able to rest until I can hold my son in my arms again. 

Ned considers her. “Alright. Then I’ll call the banners and ride south. With any luck, we can join Daenerys’s army in time to face the Lannisters.”

“If the rumors are true, I think Daenerys is  _ more _ than capable of handling the Lannisters on her own,” Catelyn says dryly. “But it would be a good show of strength, to bring the full Northern force south.” She thinks for a moment. “Robb and Theon should go with Lyanna. Winterfell should be represented by its heir, and Theon will want to see his sister again.”

“I agree,” says Ned. “Lyanna, do you mind?”

“Of course not,” she tells him, smiling. In truth, she’ll be glad of the company. Robb and Theon are good lads, and they’ll be good distractions. She’s sure Jon will be happy to see them again, too.

Ned turns back to Catelyn. “And you’ll manage Winterfell while I’m away?”

Her smile is tinged with sadness. “Of course.” 

Lyanna pretends not to notice as they clasp hands. Ned and Cat have a stronger love than most. Not a grand, sweeping romance, but a deep love all the same. 

Lyanna has loved before. Rhaegar, Melisandre, Ros. Her real love, though, has been her children. She wed Rhaegar in secret, she would follow Melisandre anywhere, and she would kill for Ros, but she would die for her children. She has, once before, and she’d do it again.

“I’ll tell the boys,” Catelyn decides, getting up from the table. “And have Maester Luwin send the ravens.”

Ned scratches Ghost behind the ears. “It’s finally happening.”

Lyanna lets out a breath. “I know. I was so ready when I first sent Jon to Essos, I’ve been waiting all this time...but in some ways, I feel so...unprepared.”

“This is no small matter,” Ned says gently. “Our lives, the lives of the Westerosi people, will never be the same after this. Nothing could have prepared you for that.”

“No,” she allows. “But even so…”

“Even so, you have moved  _ mountains. _ ” He reaches over to squeeze her hand. “You should be proud of yourself. Of all that you have done to see this through.”

“Perhaps,” she allows. “But…”

He squeezes her hand again. “Lyanna. Stop doubting yourself. You’ve done a great thing. And because of you, the Seven Kingdoms will survive the second Long Night.”

She gives him a small smile. “Thank you, big brother. I needed that.” She lets go of his hand and heads back to her room, her heart pounding. They could leave in an hour, if Robb and Theon are ready. In a matter of days, she’ll see her son again.

She’s startled from her musings when a small, slight figure leaps in front of her, making her stumble back in surprise.

“Arya!”

“You’re taking Robb and Theon to meet Jon?”

Lyanna smiles even as she presses a hand to her thumping heart. “I am, if they’ll come with me.”

Arya’s eyes are wide. “Can I come too?”

Lyanna considers her niece. She’s so like Lyanna was at her age. Or like she wanted to be. Young and wild and free. She wears boys’ breeches more often than not, and Dacey says she’s better with a blade than her brothers. The same blade, she remembers now, that Jon left for her, a twin to mirror Cassie’s own. Arya could use a little adventure. She  _ deserves _ a little adventure. 

“Of course,” Lyanna says at last. “If your mother and father agree.”

Arya shouts happily; beside her, Nymeria barks. The girl throws her arms around Lyanna. “I’ll ask them right now, I’ll make them say yes, only  _ don’t _ leave without me!”

“I won’t,” Lyanna promises, but Arya is already pelting down the corridor, Nymeria hot on her heels. 

_ Cassie could be like that. _

A knot in her throat, she moves to her room to make sure all is ready.

.

Robb, Theon, and Arya are packed and ready in less than an hour. In fact, Arya is already sitting astride her horse when Lyanna comes down to the yard, Nymeria panting eagerly beside her. 

“Thank you for inviting us, Aunt Lyanna,” Robb says dutifully. 

“Of course. I’m just glad you could come on such short notice.”

The other Starks have gathered in the yard as well, to see off Lyanna, Robb, Arya, and Theon.

“Why do they get to go?” Rickon pouts. “I want to see Jon again.”

“You hate the south,” Sansa points out kindly. “You’ll have much more fun here, where Shaggydog can run around as much as he likes.”

Rickon considers this. “Well...that’s true…”

“You’ll see Jon again soon,” Ned promises. “You and Bran have to look after things here, while I’m away.”

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

“You must keep me company,” Sansa says, crouching down to look him in the eye. “With Edric gone, I’ll be quite lonely.”

Edric Dayne is also joining Lyanna’s party, along with the Brotherhood without Banners, who have volunteered to act as Lyanna’s escort to Dragonstone. Edric has already sent ravens, calling the banners; with any luck, his men will meet their lord at Dragonstone in time to bend the knee for Daenerys. 

Rickon looks at his eldest sister suspiciously, but unable to come up with a rebuttal, he shrugs and wanders off. 

Sansa turns to Edric, eyes bright; the moment he embraces her, she starts crying, holding him tightly. Lyanna politely turns away, bidding farewell to her nephews while Ned and Cat give Arya and Robb a long list of things to remember--none of which, Lyanna is sure, the siblings will remember. 

She hugs Cat next, thanking the other woman for everything with a smile; when she turns to Ned, however, her throat closes up and tears well behind her eyes.

“Ah, don’t be like that,” he murmurs, hugging her tightly. “You still have at least a fortnight before you see him again, plenty of time to prepare.”

“It’s not that,” she says thickly. “It’s...I love you so much, Ned. I love Benjen, and I loved Brandon while he lived, but  _ you _ ...you’ve done so much for me. I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone the way I love you, big brother.”

His arms tighten around her. “Nor I, you, Lya.”

She pulls back, wiping her eyes and smiling. “I should be off.”

“Tell him,” Ned starts to say, and then hesitates. 

But she already knows what he means to say. She reaches forward, squeezing his hand. “I’ll tell him his father misses him.”

Now it’s Ned whose eyes are full of tears. She hugs him one more time before tearing herself away and climbing up into her saddle. She looks around her, observing her escort. All her ladies are coming with her, save Walda, who has wed Smalljon Umber in a raucous ceremony Lyanna isn’t like to forget. They had decided not to wait until after the war, knowing what’s at stake; that, and Lyanna suspects there might be an even smaller jon on the way.

The Brotherhood is riding with them, too, as well as a Manderly host, so they shall be well protected on the road should those still hoping to curry Lannister favor decide to surprise them. 

_ Let them try, _ Lyanna thinks madly.  _ Let them just try and come between me and my son. _

“Are you ready, Your Grace?” Ser Wylis asks.

She bows her head. “I am, ser. Lead the way.”

Theon swoops down to give Jeyne Poole one last kiss, and then their host is pouring out of the gates. Arya, Robb, and Theon break into a gallop, racing each other, and the direwolves tear after them, tongues lolling out of their mouths. 

Ros reins up beside Lyanna, beaming. “It’s finally happening, Your Grace.”

“Finally,” Lyanna echoes, watching the younger Starks blur into the horizon.

On her other side, Melisandre lowers her hood. “Can you feel that, Your Grace? Those are winds from the east, and they bring with them fire and blood.”

“And snow,” Lyanna says, thinking of Jon. 

“Just so.”

Lyanna tosses her head, picking up the pace. “We must ride harder, my loves. Winter is coming.” And with that, she breaks into a gallop, racing after her niece and nephew. 


	78. CATELYN VII

Catelyn watches as little Ned Umber helps her husband dress. He’s a good lad, and Ned is patient with him, but she can’t help wishing that he’d leave her and her husband alone so she can give him a proper goodbye. 

At long last, the boy does finish helping Ned dress, and Ned sends him to make sure his horse is fed, groomed, and saddled. Little Ned Umber rushes off to fulfil his duty to his lord--a sight more eager, Catelyn can’t help thinking, than some of the Stark bannermen. 

Ned takes her hands in his, pressing his forehead to hers. 

“I hate leaving you,” he says, already sounding weary.

“And I hate watching you go.” She takes a deep breath. “But you must.”

“I know. It doesn’t make it any easier.”

They’re quiet for a long moment. It’s quiet up here, removed from the rest of the keep...but even so, Catelyn can hear the sounds of the army gathering below, preparing for their journey south. Two weeks, if they do not encounter trouble on the road, and Catelyn does not think they will; Moat Cailin is held by Uncle Brynden, and the Twins will be open to them now that one of their own has married a Northman. The Riverlands and the Vale will be mustering their own armies and riding out to meet them; they will have to rally in the Crownlands to be near Dragonstone, but their army will be so large that Catelyn doubts the crown has the men to put up a fight, especially considering they are waging their own war against the Lannisters. There should be no trouble for Ned.

She still hates to watch him ride south.

She had never loved Brandon--in fact, she barely knew him at all--but her stomach still clenches whenever she remembers his own ride south. His father had come after him, and they’d both died on the Mad King’s orders.

_ Ned will not die, _ she tells herself fiercely. 

“You’ll manage affairs, in my absence,” Ned is saying, and she knows it’s more to soothe his nerves than hers. 

“Of course.”

“Look after the children.”

“I will.”

“And--”

“Ned,” she says gently. “I know.”

He kisses her forehead. “Right. See me off?”

“Always.” She loops her arm through his, walking with him down to the yard.

The other lords are already waiting; outside the walls of the keep, the camp is packed up, ready to march south. 

Ned leaves parting words with Poole and Maester Luwin before bidding farewell to his family. He kisses Sansa’s cheek, drying her tears, pats Bran on the shoulder and tells him to look after his mother and sister and brother, and crouches down to hold Rickon, whose face is screwed up in determination as he tries not to cry. Finally, he turns to Catelyn, and she, too, has a hard time holding back the tears.

“I’ll be with you again soon,” he promises.

_ But how long is soon? _

“I wish you good fortune,” she says softly, embracing him. “Oh, be careful, Ned.”

“I will.” He kisses her, a longer and more passionate kiss than most men might give their wives with all eyes on them, but she doesn’t have it in her to care. When he lets go, she steps back, arms around Sansa and Rickon as Ned mounts his horse. He gives her one last, lingering look before spurring his horse out the gates, Ghost trotting after him.

It is only after the last man leaves that Catelyn allows the tears to fall.

.

Thankfully for Catelyn, there is much to distract her while Ned is away.

Winterfell has always been a busy keep to manage, with Ned home or without, but it is even more so now that winter and war are upon them. Maester Luwin and Poole seem to live at her side, only leaving to carry out her instructions. She would be lost without them both, something she tries to tell them often, but Maester Luwin always shakes his head with a smile.

“I am confident you could whip even the most slovenly of houses into shape with none but Hodor at your side.”

“Perhaps, but let us be glad that is not the case.”

She tries to teach Sansa, so that her daughter may better rule Starfall when the war is over, but the younger woman has been sulky as of late. Cat supposes she cannot fault her for that; Sansa is young and only newly married.

_ I was her age when I married Ned, and he, too, rode off right after our wedding. _

It’s different with Sansa; she had known Edric before, and fallen in love with him, and they have had several weeks together as man and wife. Catelyn had felt an appropriate amount of sadness and concern over Ned’s departure after their wedding, but in truth, he was a stranger to her. It is not so with Sansa and Edric, who truly love one another.

“Why don’t you try playing with your sister?” Catelyn asks Bran and Rickon. 

“All she does is cry,” Rickon complains. 

“She misses Edric.”

“So? I miss Father, and I’m not crying.”

Catelyn stifles a laugh. “It’s a little different than missing your father.”

“They’re  _ married, _ ” Bran reminds his brother. “They’re deeply in love and every moment they’re apart is like  _ agony. _ ”

Cat raises her eyebrows. “Very poetic.” 

“I know; I helped Uncle Edmure write love letters to Roslin Frey.”

Cat purses her lips. “I see.”

“Couldn’t you send for a singer, Mother? That would make her happy.”

“I don’t know where I’d find one in the North with winter upon us.”

“The wolves can sing,” Rickon says. “Watch.” He tips back his head and does his best imitation of a wolf’s howl

At once, Shaggydog and Summer howl back, their calls loud and long and eerie. In moments, all the dogs of Winterfell are baying.

“Now they’ll never stop,” Catelyn sighs, but she supposes there are worse things than howling. “Just, try and make your sister smile again, please?”

“Yes, Mother,” Bran says dutifully.

.

Sansa does seem to be in a better mood at dinner, if a little jumpy. She smiles into her food, and when Jeyne Poole whispers something in her ear, she bursts out laughing and then suddenly looks as if she’s about to cry.

_ At least she’s smiling again, _ Catelyn thinks in relief. 

“Mother?” Rickon asks.

“Yes?”

“Will Cassie bend the knee for Queen Daenerys?”

Ah. 

She makes her face as neutral as possible, trying not to betray any emotion. “Well, that’s a very good question...and one I’m afraid I don’t have an answer to.”

“She would if she was smart,” Bran says. “If she was smart, she’d know her armies could never defeat Daenerys’s armies.”

“She is smart,” Sansa pipes up. “But if she’s anything like her father, she won’t bend the knee.”

“Is she like King Robert?”

“No,” Bran says. “She was always like Aunt Lyanna. Besides, King Robert was a horrible king.”

“Bran!”

“Well, he was,” he insists. “I squired for him. All he did was drink and wench and pick fights with people. And he  _ shouldn’t _ have been king, he had no right.”

“He had the right of conquest,” Sansa points out. “Just like Aegon the Conqueror. But if you’re going by bloodlines, then the Baratheons are the closest relatives to the Targaryens.”

“The  _ Targaryens _ are the closest relatives to the Targaryens, and there were several of them left,” Bran counters. “Aerys was still king, and--”

“Aerys was a worse king than Robert,” Sansa huffs. “But even so, the Lannisters killed Aerys,  _ and _ Elia Martell and her children, so the only Targaryens left were the queen, Viserys, and Daenerys, and Robert never would have ceded the crown to a child, let alone the child of Aerys and the younger brother of Rhaegar.”

“That is true,” Catelyn says, cutting in before Bran can retort. “It may have been the  _ right _ thing to do, to cede the crown to Viserys, but think of the implications. Viserys would have needed a regent to rule in his place until he came of age, and Robert was already a man grown. Viserys would only be king because Robert had killed his father, brother, and nephew, not something Viserys would have forgotten when he came of age. He would have sought vengeance against Robert and Tywin Lannister both, and they knew it. And then you have to assume that the people of Westeros would have accepted the Mad King’s son as their king, instead of Robert, a powerful warrior who led a successful rebellion.”

Her children are quiet for a moment, considering this.

“So,” Rickon begins slowly, “does Daenerys...want vengeance against Cassie?”

“No,” Catelyn assures him. “I am sure that Queen Daenerys, more than anyone, understands why it is wrong to blame the child for the father’s sins.”

“But then, what happens if Cassie doesn’t bend the knee?” Rickon asks insistently. “Will Daenerys attack King’s Landing?”

Catelyn catches Septa Mordane pretending not to listen. 

“That’s difficult to say.” She clears her throat. “It would not be wise for Daenerys to attack the people she means to rule; fighting an army is one thing, but unleashing her army on innocents would not make the people like her...at the same time, she will take the Iron Throne, whatever the cost.”

“Fire and Blood,” Bran supplies.

Catelyn purses her lips.

“But Jon wouldn’t let her,” Rickon insists. “Would he?”

Catelyn takes a deep breath. “I don’t know. I don’t know how much Daenerys listens to him. But even if she trusted him completely, she cannot ignore Cassie refusing to bend the knee. She will have the Iron Throne whether Cassie bends the knee or no.”

“I hope she bends the knee,” Rickon says fervently.

“So do we all.”

.

She’s only just climbed into bed, having dismissed her maid for the night, when a knock comes on the door.

“Mother? Can I come in?”

Sansa.

“Come in,” Catelyn calls, reclining against her pillows.

Sansa slips inside the door, closing it behind her. She’s jittery, her hands behind her back.

“What is it?” Catelyn asks curiously. 

Sansa hesitates. “Can I…?”

Catelyn pats the space beside her, pulling back the covers.

Sansa scampers across the rushes, kicking of her slippers and sitting beside her mother. Catelyn tugs the covers over her lap, patting her daughter’s knee. “What is it, sweetling?”

Sansa is quiet for a moment, hands in her lap. “Mother...I think...that I might be...with child.”

_ But you are  _ ** _my_ ** _ child, _ Catelyn wants to say. Instead, she swallows, gripping Sansa’s knee a little tighter. “Are you certain?”

“I think so. I haven’t bled since the wedding, and I’ve felt...awful for the last few weeks. I wanted to ask you how you knew, whenever you were pregnant with one of us.”

_ She is still my child, but she is a woman, too, _ Catelyn reminds herself, wrapping an arm around her daughter’s shoulders. Sansa leans against her, her head tucked into the crook of Catelyn’s neck as if she were a little girl again, and not a married woman carrying her first child.

“I found out much the same way as you,” she says gently. “I did not bleed, and I felt ill. I felt...listless, sometimes, and full of emotion at others. Sometimes there were aches--small ones, but enough that I knew something was...different.”

“My back has been hurting a little,” Sansa admits. 

Catelyn holds her closer. “Shall we speak to Maester Luwin in the morning?”

Sansa hesitates. “Will he...have to look...inside me?”

“That is the only way to know for certain, and it will give him an idea of when the baby will come.”

Sansa makes a face. “I know he’s our maester, but he’s...he’s like family. I don’t want him to see... _ that _ .”

Catelyn gives a small laugh. “I assure you, Sansa, it is perfectly normal. There’s no shame in him examining you. He did the same for me, and delivered you, and Arya, and Bran and Rickon.”

Sansa considers this. “Will you come with me?”

“Of course I will! You may be a woman grown, but you are still my little girl.” Catelyn wraps her other arm around her daughter, kissing the top of her head and rocking her. “I can’t believe it. My little girl, already carrying her first child.”

Sansa suddenly bursts into tears. “I’m so afraid, Mother! What if Edric doesn’t come back from war? What if the White Walkers kill us all? Old Nan used to tell us about the Long Night, when babies would be born and die in the darkness, and I don’t want that to happen to my baby, I don’t--”

“Sansa!” Catelyn cries, alarmed. “Hush, now! There’s no need for this. What makes you think Edric won’t come back from war?”

“It’s  _ war _ , lots of men  _ never _ come back, even lords!”

Catelyn knows that all too well. “Your father and Robb will look after him, I’m sure. And the...Brotherhood that he is part of. He will come back to you, Sansa, and to your child, who will  _ not _ be born and die all in the darkness.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I am your mother; I know everything.”

Sansa lets out a wet laugh, wiping her eyes and nose. “Right.”

Catelyn kisses the top of her head again. “Dry those tears, sweetling. Everything will be alright, you’ll see.”

“Do you promise?”

Catelyn looks at her daughter’s hopeful face. “I  _ swear _ it, by the old gods and the new.”


	79. ARYA IV

The air is full of the sound of creaking wood, rippling water, crying gulls, and steel meeting steel. 

Aunt Lyanna’s men and women watch as Arya and Edric spar, Needle meeting his rapier again and again. He’s a good sparring partner; he’s well trained, and has a skill that belies his modesty. He’s also one of the only men Arya has sparred with who hasn’t tried to go easy on her because she’s a girl, or declined fighting her because of some misplaced sense of honor. 

The Brotherhood are the most vocal of their spectators, oohing and laughing in turns, though Aunt Lyanna and her ladies call out encouragement from time to time, and even the Manderly men will hoot whenever Arya gets the upper hand. They may be Northmen, but they’re much more refined in White Harbor than in other parts of the North, and Arya doubts they’ve seen women fight before. The Mormonts, after all, are on the other side of the continent, and the spearwives of the free folk have largely settled in the Gift, far from the White Knife. Arya must seem strange to them.

She disarms Edric and holds Needle to his throat until he yields. The audience applauds Arya, dispersing now that the spar is over.

“You fought well,” she tells Edric, because Father told her she should offer a compliment to the loser to lessen the sting. Not that she thinks Edric needs it, but she wants to practice it all the same.

“Not as well as you,” he says with a smile. 

“No one fights as well as me.”

He laughs. “That’s true. Will you be fighting with us when we meet the Lannisters in battle?”

“I hope so, but my father probably won’t allow it.” She’s thought of this already. Her father may entertain her fancies, but he will not let her go into battle. She can’t blame him; she is his child, and barely grown, and he wants to protect her. Robb must go, because he is the heir to Winterfell and a man grown, but Arya is still a girl child and stands to inherit nothing. 

Maybe she’ll live with Sansa, when all this is over. She’d like Starfall, and Dorne. Robb and Theon have told her a bit about it, and she thinks she’d like it there. The women are equal to men, and many of them fight and wear breeches like any other man. Arya would fit in there. Maybe, if her parents still insisted on a marriage, she could marry some Dornish lord who would let her do as she pleased. She could tolerate marriage if she was allowed to wear what she liked and use her sword. 

Not that any of it will matter if they can’t survive the Long Night. 

“Will you fight?” she asks now, sheathing Needle.

“I do not know,” Edric admits. “I suppose I am still Lord Beric’s squire...but I am a man grown and wed, and my Aunt Allyria will not be able to lead our men into battle. I suppose I must.”

_ Must. _ Edric talks of war as if it is a duty. It is, she supposes...but what she wouldn’t give to trade places with him. To let him shelter safely in a fortified keep while she leads men into battle. She has made her peace with her place, but that doesn’t mean she can’t dream.

“The Battle for the Dawn will not be won without the Sword of the Morning to light the way.”

Arya and Edric look up as Melisandre approaches them, her red eyes observing them. 

“Edric isn’t the Sword of the Morning,” Arya says in surprise. “That was his uncle, Ser Arthur Dayne.”

But Edric shakes his head. “The Sword of the Morning is the title held by whoever wields my family’s sword, Dawn. My uncle was the most famous Sword of the Morning in recent memory, but whoever wields the sword holds that title.”

Arya didn’t know that. “Where is Dawn?”

“At Starfall, guarded by my Aunt Allyria.”

“For now,” Melisandre says mysteriously; then again, everything she says is mysterious. Arya has learned to live with it. 

“And what about my good-sister?” Edric asks gamely. “Will she fight in the Battle for the Dawn, too?”

Melisandre fixes her red eyes on Arya. “We will all fight in the Battle for the Dawn.”

The words chill Arya more than they should.  _ She knows something. She’s seen it. _

“ _ Valar morghulis, _ ” Melisandre says, and moves away.

“She’s...very odd,” Edric says quietly. “But she did prophesy that Sansa and I would be married.”

“She also prophesied that Jeyne would marry Darkstar.” 

“She said her fortune  _ lay _ with Darkstar. She was not wrong; had my cousin not sought her hand, Theon would not have made his feelings known.”

Arya hadn’t considered that before, but she supposes it makes sense. And Aunt Lyanna wouldn’t trust just anyone; if she believes Melisandre, then so does Arya. 

“Why is your cousin…”

“Awful?” Edric asks wryly. “I don’t know. I suppose it comes from growing up in a cadet house, knowing he was older and wiser and more experienced than his child cousin who inherited the greater house...but even that can only be so much of an excuse. They say he’s the most dangerous man in Dorne, you know.”

“ _ Darkstar? _ ” she asks in disbelief. 

Edric shrugs. “There is much he gets up to in Sunspear.”

“Like what?”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Let’s just say he has very few enemies...anymore.” In a softer tone, he adds, “Don’t look now, but Gendry’s watching you again.”

“Where?” she asks, not moving.

“Your left.”

She pretends to adjust her belt, her eyes flickering to the left. Sure enough, Gendry is watching her from the shadows, his blue eyes intent on her.

She turns back to Edric, biting back a smile. “Why do you think he does that?”

“Is it not obvious?” When she shakes her head, he says, “My lady...he is attracted to you.”

The thought makes Arya’s stomach twist. “ _ Me? _ But I’m…well, I’m  _ me. _ ”

“Exactly,” Edric says, politely perplexed. “You’re Arya Stark. You’re a better fighter than most men. You’re not...a normal woman.”

“And he likes that?”

“He appears to.”

Arya doesn’t know what to make of this. Most men don’t seem to like women like her. She’s seen the way the men react to the Mormonts and Asha Greyjoy, she knows what they say behind her back. Why would Gendry be any different?

“Is he…” She hesitates. “Is he a good person? I don’t know him as well as you do.”

Edric smiles. “He is, my lady. Surly, but he has a good heart. He had a comfortable life in King’s Landing as an apprentice to one of the best smiths in the city, but he left that behind to serve your aunt.”

Arya has talked to Gendry before, but only in passing. He’s quiet, perhaps the quietest of the Brotherhood, and he’d just been one of many faces to her. She looks at him differently now, wondering what he sees in her. Does he  _ like _ that she’s a better fighter than most men? That she’s not a normal woman? 

“There is...one thing you should know,” Edric adds, his smile fading.

“What is it?”

He steps closer, lowering his voice. “He is King Robert’s bastard son.”

She looks at Gendry, forgetting to be subtle. He seems to be preoccupied with something else, giving her the chance to really look at him. Yes, she sees it now; that ink-black hair and those sapphire blue eyes. She sees the resemblance now, not just between him and King Robert, but between him and Cassie.

“I see.”

“Please do not tell him I told you, I only thought you should know before you...decided anything.”

“I won’t tell him,” she promises. “Thank you, Edric.”

He nods. “We are family now; we must look out for one another.”

She hesitates. “You won’t...tell Robb about this? Will you?”

Edric smiles again. “No, I won’t tell him.”

Her shoulders sag in relief. “Thank you.”

“I  _ may _ tell Sansa, though.”

“Well, then, I shall have to beat you.”

.

In the evening, when Arya climbs into her hammock, she turns to Dacey Mormont and asks, “Do men like you?”

“No,” Dacey says bluntly. “And I don’t much care for them either.”

Arya bites her lip. “What about your sister, Alysane? She must like men, or she wouldn’t have children.”

“Haven’t you heard, Lady Arya?” Wynafryd teases. “The Mormont women only lie with  _ bears _ , not men.”

Arya rolls her eyes. “Yes, yes, but  _ really _ ...don’t men...not like women like...us?”

“Most of them don’t,” Dacey agrees, propping herself up on one elbow. “But some do. Why? Someone caught your fancy?”

Arya hesitates. “Edric told me...one of the men likes me.”

“Do you want me to beat him?”

“I can beat him myself, but that’s not what I want.”

“Then what do you want?” Wynafryd asks.

Arya shrugs. “I don’t know. I sort of...never really thought men would like me.”

“He’s either a good man or a right prick,” Dacey says wisely. “He either likes you for who you are, or he has some notion of taming you.”

Arya considers this. “Edric said he’s a good person.”

“Well, men will always say that about other men,” Wynafryd huffs. “Even good men like Lord Edric. They don’t see the same things we do.”

“So how do I know? If he’s really a good person?”

“Wrestle him,” Dacey advises. 

“Or you could just talk to him,” Wynafryd says, giving Dacey an odd look. 

“Wrestling is better; you can always tell the nature of a man by the way he fights.”

“I’ll have to remember that,” Wynafryd says, still giving Dacey that odd look.

Arya doesn’t think the advice is very practical, as she won’t be able to find an opportunity to wrestle Gendry anytime soon, but she’ll keep it in mind should the occasion arise. 

“Who is it? This man who likes you?” Wynafryd asks.

Arya shakes her head. “I don’t want to say.”

“Why not? I can wrestle him for you, if you like.”

“ _ No, _ Dacey.”

Arya rolls over in her hammock, eyes flitting to where the men sleep across the hold. She feels as foolish as Sansa, thinking about men and how much they like her...yet Arya knows that if Sansa was here now, she’d give good advice.

_ I miss her, _ she realizes. 

She’ll see her sister again soon, once the south has bent the knee. Arya will go back North, and then she and Sansa can talk about boys all they want while they shelter in Winterfell and wait out the war. 

.

In the early hours of dawn, someone shakes Arya awake.

“What?” she groans, cracking open her eyes.

It’s Robb, his own eyes bleary. “Aunt Lyanna wants us up on deck, come.”

Yawning, she climbs out of her hammock, following him up the steps and onto the deck. The morning air is brisk; Arya wraps her arms around herself, wishing she’d thought to bring a cloak and boots. Her night shirt is thin and her bare feet are freezing. Yet the early morning sky is bright and beautiful, the sky streaked with gold as the sun makes its slow ascent.

Aunt Lyanna is standing by the rail; she gestures for them to join her, arms around their shoulders as she turns them to face south. “Do you see?” she asks excitedly.

It takes Arya a moment to see what she’s talking about...but there, on the horizon, are dark wings against the bright sky. They’re too big to be gulls, too big by  _ far. _

“Are those…?”

“Dragons,” Robb says, eyes wide. “Those are  _ dragons _ !”

“Aye.” Aunt Lyanna rubs their arms, warming them. “Jon and Daenerys are close.”

Jon. Arya hasn’t seen him in years, not since she was a slip of a girl and he was little more than a boy. He’ll be a man grown now, a seasoned warrior and the right hand man of the dragon queen. He’ll have seen and done wonderful things, while Arya has just been...Arya.

_ Will he still remember me? Will I still be his little sister? _

She watches the dragons wheel about in the sky and wonders.


	80. JON XXIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was heavily inspired by Dany's arrival on Dragonstone for this chapter, which should be pretty obvious as you read on. My girl deserves her happy homecoming :)

He finds Dany standing at the prow of the ship, transfixed by the high castle rising up over the horizon.

“Dragonstone,” she tells him, squeezing his hand when he stands beside her. “My home.”

Westeros. At last, at  _ long _ last, they are here. 

The journey from Meereen had taken forever. They’d had to sail through the Gulf of Grief and into the Summer Sea, heading west past the smoking ruins of Old Valyria, the Summer Islands, and Volantis, finally heading north to the Narrow Sea, where they slipped through the Stepstones, past Cape Wrath and Shipbreaker Bay, and finally skirted Massey’s Point. And now, finally, they are at Dragonstone.

Jon has never been here before, but something stirs in him at the sight of the castle. This was his father’s ancestral home, the place where Daena the Dreamer and her family settled before the Doom of Valyria. Rhaegar was the Prince of Dragonstone, and though Jon is baseborn, he cannot help feel some pride at the sight of the island.

“I was born here,” Dany continues. “I used to see this place in my dreams, Viserys had painted such a portrait of it.”

“Is it just as you dreamt?” 

She considers. “It’s...I don’t know. The same, but different.” She squeezes his hand again. “In truth, it is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen. Not because it’s more pleasant to look upon than the Free Cities or Qarth or the Great Pyramid of Meereen...but because I have dreamt about this place for  _ so many years. _ And now I’m finally here.” Her eyes are full of tears when she turns to Jon. “After all that we have suffered and survived, we are  _ home. _ ”

He hugs her, breathing deeply. “We should send ravens, or messengers if there is no maester, and tell my mother we are here. We need our allies to rally around us.”

“They are sure to know we’re already here.” Oberyn comes towards them, Ellaria on his arm. “The fleet will have drawn attention; if all of Westeros does not already know we’re here, they will in less than a fortnight.”

“Good,” Dany proclaims. “I want my allies around me as soon as possible.”

“Dorne will be waiting, Your Grace,” Ellaria declares.

“And I’m sure the North will be on its way; my brother Doran will have written to the Starks as soon as he learned of our progress.”

_ The Starks. _ Jon will see his family soon. His mother, his father (Ned Stark may be his uncle by birth, but Jon will always think of him as his father), his aunt, his cousins...and even his sister Cassie.

Jon does not delude himself into believing that they will not meet any resistance from his half-sister. Sweet as she always was, she was a young girl then, and a princess besides; she is a woman now, and queen of her father’s kingdom. She is not like to take their presence well, nor the demand for her to submit her throne to Dany, the daughter of the man who wanted her father killed. 

_ Will she acknowledge me as her brother? Will she remember those days we spent together as children? Or am I only her enemy now? _

Asha Greyjoy strides up to join them. “The island looks uninhabited; we would’ve met a patrol by now if it wasn’t. Most likely Lord Stannis heard we were coming and ordered it evacuated.”

Dany turns to Jon. “Have Grey Worm organize a scouting party to make sure there aren’t any hidden surprises.”

He bows his head. “As you command.”

.

Grey Worm’s scouting party combs the island; when they’ve finished, they signal from the high cliffs.

Dany and her captains are the first to row to shore. As soon as she climbs out of the boat, she kneels in the sand, flattening her hand against it.

“So this is Westeros,” she murmurs, a smile on her face.

Jon and the others follow her up the steps to the dragon-head gate; two Unsullied guards open the doors, revealing the keep in all its glory. High stone walls, winding walkways, sturdy merlons, and pointed turrets sit at the top of a high hill. The dragons circle the castle eagerly, almost as if they recognize the great keep. Almost as if they know they are home. 

Dany leads the way up the walk. It’s a long, spindly walk, one that takes them over a wide moat, up the slope of the hill, and finally, finally to the castle itself. A black and yellow stag greets them in the entryway; Dany tugs at the banner until it puddles at her feet. She nods at the Unsullied, who open the doors to the throne room for her.

It is a magnificent a throne room. The ceiling is impossibly high, supported by columns hewn from rough stone. At the far end of the room is a throne carved into more rough stone, the points jagged but the seat smooth as marble. The old Targaryens must have held court here, and even after the Conquest, Aegon’s descendants, the Princes of Dragonstone, would have sat here, practicing for the day that they would take an even greater throne.

Dany bypasses the throne, following the dais to a private chamber lit by wide windows. Small tables and scrolls are tucked into nooks and crannies, but the room itself is dominated by one long, carved table...carved, Jon sees now, in the shape of Westeros. Wolves, krakens, lions, and stags litter the table. This must be the same table Aegon and his sisters used to plan their conquest three hundred years ago.

Dany stands at the head of the table, watching her captains fill the room. When the last of them has shuffled inside, she asks, “Shall we begin?”

.

The Unsullied scour the castle and take inventory of all that they have available. The larders are still full, and there are still clothes in most of the rooms. All the gold and jewels are gone, but no one had expected to find any valuables anyway. The food will be enough, and the ironborn can fish while the Dothraki hunt, so they can sustain themselves for a long while.

The ravens have all been released from the rookery, so they will have to send messengers if they mean to communicate with anyone.

“The Dornish will be here soon,” Oberyn promises. “They will have seen us passing; now it is only a matter of marching north. And Doran will have written to our allies in the North, and the Riverlands, and the Vale.”

“Even without them, the Unsullied, Dothraki, and Ironborn are enough to ward off any enemies,” Jon points out. “Not to mention the dragons.”

“Yes,” Dany says, “but what if no one comes?”

“They will come,” Tyrion promises. “You have Prince Oberyn’s word that the Dornish are coming, and we know the North is behind you. Catelyn Stark’s brother rules the Riverlands, and he has pledged his support. Catelyn and her brother are also the regents of the Vale until their nephew comes of age, and the Vale will do as they command.”

“My aunt is a good woman, Your Grace,” Jon adds. “She will see to it that you have the full support of the Riverlands and the Vale.”

Dany wanders to the window, almost as if she expects to see a fleet of enemy ships sailing towards them. “Landing here has been too easy.”

“With all due respect, Your Grace, the landing  _ is _ the easy part,” Jorah says gently. “It is holding the land that will be the hard part.”

“You’re right, Ser Jorah.” She turns back to the table. “But what can I do while we wait for our allies?”

“You will not like it...but you must be patient and wait for them to come to you.”

She makes a small noise in her throat. “I am tired of waiting for things to happen.”

“You must wait a little longer, Your Grace,” Ellaria says. “To take action now would be, if you will forgive me, foolish.”

Asha nods. “I agree. There’s no point making a move if you don’t have your full force behind you.”

Dany considers this, looking down at the carved table. She stands at the south end, with Dorne before her. “How strong are the Crown’s forces?”

“Not strong enough to defy your armies,” says Jorah. “The Crownlands have always had more lords than knights. King’s Landing has always relied on other armies, the closest being the Stormlands, and most of those forces will already be deployed to the west against Casterly Rock.”

“The Westerlands have a large army, and with the combined force of Euron Greyjoy’s fleet, the Crown will be much preoccupied,” Tyrion agrees. “Even with the Reach aiding them, my father’s armies will be too much, and Euron Greyjoy’s raids up and down the coast will have the western coast under his control.”

“The Baratheons will have no choice but to bend the knee,” says Oberyn.

Dany glances at Jon. “Do you think your sister will?”

_ My sister. _ “In truth, I do not know,” he admits. “The wise thing would be for her to bend the knee...but her mother and father are two of the stubbornest people in the Seven Kingdoms, and she will not take our mother’s loyalties lightly. There may be some resistance from her.”

“It is crucial she bend the knee of her own accord,” Dany stresses. “I don’t want any Baratheon sympathizers putting her back on the throne once we march north. I do not want her taking advantage of the peace in the south while I wage war in the North.”

“With all due respect, Your Grace, there will be no peace in the south if the war in the North is not won first,” Jorah says, not unkindly. “Perhaps it would be more prudent to win the war before winning the throne.”

Dany raises an eyebrow. “So you would give the Baratheons time to prepare while my armies spend themselves defeating the Army of the Dead?”

Jorah spreads his hands. “The Baratheons are already at war with the Lannisters. Let them fight each other while you and your armies fight beyond the Wall. Your forces will be smaller in size, yes, but so will theirs. And you will have defeated the true enemy while the Baratheons and Lannisters fight their petty squabbles, and all the smallfolk will love you for it.”

Dany looks around at her advisors. “What do you all think?”

They’re quiet for a moment. 

“I think it would be more prudent to win the war in the south first,” Asha says at last. “If you win the war here, you will have the support of all of Westeros, not just part of it. We will have a greater chance of success that way.”

“I agree,” says Jon, not meeting Jorah’s eye. “The larger the army, the higher the chance of victory. Your Hand can rule from King’s Landing, and my sister can stay with a trusted bannerman to ensure there are no plots to put her back on the throne.”

Dany nods. “I like this idea.” 

An Unsullied slips into the room, murmuring something to Grey Worm; the general clears his throat before saying, “A ship has been sighted coming from the north. It has a mermaid sail, like the Manderly ships led by Lady Greyjoy.”

“Manderly?” Jon repeats, spirits lifting. 

“Just one ship?” Dany asks, eyes narrowed.

“It could be an envoy,” Jorah suggests. 

An envoy means they know Dany is here, and if they know she’s here…

“I’m going to meet them,” Jon decides.

“You don’t know who it is yet.”

“Whoever it is is from the North,” he points out. “At the very least, they’ll have news of my family.”

Dany nods. “Go.”

He leaves the room, walking past the throne, out the doors, and down the long, winding path. It really is  _ absurdly _ long, though he understands the reasoning; the walls surrounding the moat are high while the moat itself is low and uneven; to climb over the wall only to drop down into the moat below would be suicide, and so the only way to get to the castle is to take the narrow walkway. If an enemy were to tear down the gates, they would have a long way to go to get to the castle, and the castle guards would see them coming a long way off.

_ Let us hope it does not come to that, _ he thinks, pausing to catch his breath. 

He sees the lone Manderly ship sailing into the bay; as the walkway slopes down, it goes out of sight, but he knows that a boat will likely be rowing to shore. Sure enough, when he passes through the gates, he sees three boats rowing towards him.

They reach the shore at the same time. Dothraki guards are waiting on the beach, eyeing the newcomers suspiciously, but one look at the passengers and Jon tells them to stand down.

“Jon!” his mother cries, jumping out of the boat before it has even reached the beach. Some of the others shout after her, but she splashes through the shallows, soaking her dress up to her knees.

Jon runs to meet her, catching her in his arms and holding her tight. He begins to cry, and after a moment he realizes that she is doing the same.

“My son,” she sobs, squeezing him so hard she threatens to crack a rib. He can only hold her and rock her, unable to form words. After years of trying to get back to her, here she is, safe and whole in his arms.

She finally pulls back, smiling through her tears. “Oh, my son,” she murmurs, stroking his cheek. “You were a child when last I saw you; now you are a man.”

“I wanted to come back sooner,” he says, and suddenly he feels afraid. “We tried--”

“I know,” she assures him, touching his hair. “I know you tried. And you did well. You have Unsullied, the Dothraki, the Ironborn, and  _ dragons _ . I never imagined you and Daenerys would raise an army this strong.”

Her words relieve him. “Neither did we,” he admits. “There were so many times when it felt as if we’d lost everything and we’d never make it home, with or without an army.”

“I’m glad you came home,” she says sincerely, and then seems to remember herself. “And I’m not the only one.” She steps aside, gesturing to her attendants...and among them, Jon sees Robb, Arya, and their wolves.

Arya greets him first, running at him as she had when she was a child. She looks so different, nearly a woman grown, but he would recognize her anywhere. 

“You’ve grown,” he says stupidly.

“You haven’t.”

Instinctively, he jabs his fingers under her armpits, making her shout and flail back with a smile.

Robb comes forward next, looking so like their father ( _ his father _ ) that it makes Jon’s breath catch in his throat.

“It’s good to see you again, Jon,” Robb says in a thick voice.

“And you.”

Robb pulls back to look at him. “You look just like Father, you know.”

“Really?” Jon asks in surprise. “I was about to say the same about you.”

Robb beams.

The wolves are sniffing at him; Jon reaches over to pet them, smiling when their enormous tongues loll out of their mouths. They’re huge, these beasts; much bigger than the pups Jon had left behind. “Where’s Ghost?”

“You won’t be getting him back,” Robb warns. “Father graciously decided to look after him in your absence--”

“--and now they’re joined at the hip,” Arya finishes. “Ghost follows him everywhere; Father feeds him from his own plate and lets him sleep on his bed.”

“ _ Our _ father?” Jon asks in surprise. “What was it he said when we found them?”

Robb does his best impression of Ned Stark. “‘You’ll train them yourselves, you’ll feed them yourselves, and if they die, you’ll bury them yourselves.’ Aye, that lasted all of one hour.”

Jon looks around at the others. “Where is he?”

“Leading the Northern forces south,” Mother assures him. “Prince Doran wrote to us that he’s already assembling his armies, and your Aunt Catelyn has written to her brother Edmure and the Royces of the Gates of the Moon to muster the forces of the Riverlands and the Vale. They can’t be too far behind us.”

Jon had known that their allies would come, but he’s heartened to hear it confirmed by his mother. “Daenerys will be glad to hear it. Shall I take you to her?”

“Please.”

.

Dany is still in her council chamber when the party from the North arrives. 

“Pardon, Your Grace,” he interrupts, “but my mother is here.”

“Queen Lyanna?” Dany repeats with wide eyes. She dismisses her councilors, following Jon out to the throne room.

His mother is the first to bend the knee; Arya, Robb, Theon, and all the rest follow.

“Queen Daenerys,” she says, head bowed. “It is an honor to meet you at last.”

“Rise, Queen Lyanna,” Dany says, beaming as she pulls the other woman to her feet.

Mother smiles at her. “Just Lyanna, if you don’t mind, Your Grace.”

“And you must call me Daenerys. The honor is all mine. I have heard stories of you all my life; I’m glad to finally meet you.” 

Mother squeezes her hands. “And you. Thank you for keeping my son by your side.”

“Jon has been my truest friend, my most loyal companion, and my brother. I would not have made it here without him.”

Jon swallows. “Your Grace, may I introduce you to more of my family? My brother Robb, heir to Winterfell, and my sister Arya.”

“Your Grace.”

Dany smiles as she takes their hands. “It is an honor to meet you both.”

“My father is marching his host south,” Robb tells her. “They cannot be far behind us. They’ll meet my uncle Edmure Tully’s forces on the road, as well as the Knights of the Vale.”

Dany’s smile widens. “I am glad to hear it. In the meantime, I offer you the hospitality of Dragonstone, such as it is.”

“We only just arrived,” Jon explains. “Haven’t had a chance to make much use of it ourselves.”

“I only need a fire to warm the chill of the sea out of my bones,” Mother says.

“You shall have fire, and food, and hot water for a bath,” Dany declares. “Irri, will you see it done?”

“Yes,  _ Khaleesi. _ ”

As the handmaid leads the Northern party to rooms, Asha Greyjoy peels away from Dany’s councilors to throw an arm around Theon’s shoulders, giving him a light punch in the side that makes him shout. Mother squeezes Jon’s hand.

“Let’s talk later,” she says softly. “Just you and I.”

He nods, smiling when she releases him and follows the others.

Dany stands beside him, watching them go. “She’s exactly as I pictured her.”

“Really?”

“Mm. Kind, and beautiful, and sad, but there’s steel beneath the surface.”

He heaves a sigh. “That’s my mother for you.”

They’re quiet for a moment. “Your brother…” she starts, and then hesitates.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

He glances at his aunt, curious. “What were you going to say?”

“Nothing.” Yet he detects the faintest blush.

“Dany…”

“Nothing,” she insists, turning on her heel and walking away.

“Seven hells,” he mutters. Girls have always liked Robb, but if Dany falls for him, he might just lose his mind.


	81. ROBB I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's that! Our first Robb POV!!
> 
> It's not much, but it's honest work.

Robb sighs as he sinks into the steaming bath, the chill and damp from the last two weeks slowly melting away. He hadn’t minded the ship, really, but he’d take a roaring fire and a hot bath over the ship any day.

He scrubs his skin and hair until he’s clean, and then he leans back against the tub, closing his eyes and soaking. 

Unbidden, an image of the dragon queen floats across his mind.

She’s easily the loveliest woman he’s ever beheld, and he’s beheld quite a few women. Northern women, southern women, Dornish women, highborn women, lowborn women...but never a Targaryen woman. 

He’s never seen a Targaryen before, except perhaps Jon, and he doesn’t count. He’d heard of their silver-blond hair, their purple and deep blue eyes, but nothing had prepared him for seeing Daenerys herself. Her eyes had enraptured him, and her smile had nearly undone him.

Unbidden, he feels himself stiffening beneath the water.

_ Stop that, _ he chastises himself, but it’s been months since he had a woman’s company, and the mere sight of Daenerys has apparently been enough to inflame him. Surely it would be alright to think of her, just this one time, his first time being alone in weeks…

His hand wraps around his cock; he blows out a breath, starting to pump, and--

The door bangs open.

“Gods be damned!” he shouts, sitting upright as Theon strides in the room. “Knock next time, Greyjoy!”

“Sorry,” Theon says in a voice that would imply he’s not at all sorry. He pulls up a chair, straddling it and resting his arms over the back. “So, what do you think?”

“Of what?” Robb asks, shifting so that Theon won’t see his unfortunately still erect self.

Theon gestures. “Dragonstone, Jon, Daenerys...all of it.”

Robb’s cock twitches at the mention of Daenerys.  _ Down, boy. _ “Dragonstone is as great as all the tales would have us believe. Jon is much changed, but I think it for the better. And the queen is...most kind.”

“That she is,” Theon agrees. “And I think you’re right about Jon. He was always a miserable bastard before, but he seems different now.”

“I think we’re all different now.”

“That’s true,” he agrees. “Even you and me.”

The door bangs open again, and Robb curses, covering himself, as Asha Greyjoy kicks the door shut behind her and pulls up a chair to copy Theon.

“Afternoon, Stark.”

“Do neither of you have any decency?” Robb huffs. “I’m in the bath.”

“Please, there isn’t much to hide,” Asha scoffs. 

He rolls his eyes. “I’ve missed you too, Asha.”

“How was Meereen?” Theon asks, seemingly oblivious to Robb’s irritation.

“Hot,” Asha says bluntly. “We weren’t there for long, thank god. How was Winterfell?”

“Cold.”

“Ah, no pretty maids to warm your bed?”

Theon flushes.

“So there  _ is _ a pretty maid!” she crows. “And you must like her a lot, or you wouldn’t be blushing like one. Who’s the lucky girl?”

“Jeyne Poole,” Robb says at once, taking whatever opportunities he can to make Theon as uncomfortable as he feels.

“She’s not warming my bed,” Theon says quickly. “I’ll not have her maidenhead until we’re married.”

Asha raises an eyebrow. “Married?”

“When the war is over.”

Asha grins. “Is my little brother truly so chivalrous that he’d wait until  _ marriage _ to have his lady love’s maidenhead?”

“No one was more surprised than I,” Theon mutters.

“He fought Darkstar in a duel for Jeyne’s hand.”

Asha raises both eyebrows. “Did you really?  _ Darkstar? _ ”

“He lost,” Robb supplies cheerfully.

Theon flushes. “He fought dirty.”

“So should you, if it means you win,” Asha huffs. “Well, it sounds like at least you won the girl, which is the important thing, I suppose. I’m sorry I missed it; I would’ve taken  _ great _ pleasure in giving Darkstar a good beating. The things Arianne told me about him…”

“Well, he fled Winterfell, and no one’s heard from him since.”

“For now,” she says grimly. 

“Look, this is all very interesting,” Robb says, “but could you both...leave? I’m a bit...naked.”

“Don’t be such a baby,” Asha dismisses. “Nothing we haven’t seen before.”

“Well, I’d rather you didn’t see it now.”

Asha ignores that. “Where’s that wolf of yours?”

“He’s outside, maybe you should go find him.”

“Nah,” she decides. “This makes you more uncomfortable.”

“ _ Obviously. _ ”

“Aw, leave him alone, Asha,” Theon interjects.

“Why? So you can stare at his willy in peace?”

“I wasn’t staring at it.”

“You were just sitting in a chair watching him take a bath, then?”

“I wasn’t  _ watching, _ ” he protests. “I was  _ talking _ to him while he was in the bath.”

“You couldn’t have waited until he was done?”

Tired of their bickering and knowing they aren’t about to leave anytime soon, Robb stands with a splash.

“Aargh, put that thing away!” Asha bellows as he steps out of the tub.

“If you won’t leave, I will,” he huffs, reaching for his clothes. He dresses in a trice and leaves the room before either Greyjoy sees more of his...well. 

He means to go find Grey Wind, who he’s sure is running gleefully about with Nymeria after two weeks on the sea, but the problem is that he doesn’t really remember the way down, and Dragonstone is not the most easily navigable castle. The stairs are winding spirals tucked away in corners and at the ends of corridors, and even when Robb is sure he’s made it down to the main floor, he doesn’t know how to get out of the keep; the stairs he’s taken lead him down to a corridor with a dead end, so that  _ can’t _ be right. 

He’s pacing up and down the corridor, muttering under his breath as he hopes an exit will miraculously appear before him, when a door opens, and out walks the queen herself.

Daenerys Targaryen.

She is accompanied by a slip of a woman with doe eyes and the curliest hair he’s ever seen; both women look at him with something like surprise. 

“Robb Stark,” Daenerys greets. 

“Your Grace.” He inclines his head. “Forgive me; I appear to be lost.”

“I should say so,” she says with a small smile. “But I suppose I can’t fault you for that; this place is strange to me too. I believe our way out is through here.”

He follows meekly as she opens a door across the corridor. On the other side is a great hall, and to the right…

Are a grand, sweeping set of stairs.

“I feel a fool,” he admits. “I must have taken the servants’ stairs.”

“My ancestors did not design this castle with guests in mind, it would seem.” She walks through the hall, looking up at the tapestries and stag banners. “Then again, I suppose when they landed on Dragonstone, entertaining guests was the last thing on their minds.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

She’s quiet for a moment, gazing at the hall. “My ancestors were not fond of this place,” she says at last. “It was our home, but the castle was built to withstand sea and storm. It is said that Prince Daeron found Dragonstone so gloomy that he preferred to be known as the Prince of Summerhall instead. Then again, I’m not sure Daeron the Drunken was the  _ wisest _ Targaryen.”

A joke. A small one, but a joke all the same. Robb smiles. “Considering the circumstances of his death, I would say you are probably right, Your Grace.”

She turns to him, also smiling. “Pox from a whore, so they say.”

“A noble death for the Prince of Summerhall.”

Her smile widens, and Robb can feel his do the same. 

She turns to look at the hall again. “It  _ is _ rather gloomy, I suppose...but I cannot help being fond of it. I was born here.”

“I know.” Everyone knows. After Rhaegar was slain at the Trident, Aerys sent his pregnant wife and young son to Dragonstone to keep them safe, and kept Elia Martell and her children in the capital as a shield against the people. It hadn’t worked; Tywin Lannister and his army had sacked the city and killed Aerys, Elia, and her children. Not long after, Rhaella gave birth to the last Targaryen while a storm howled around her...and around the same time, Catelyn Stark gave birth to her own child.

_ I was my mother’s first, and Daenerys was her mother’s last.  _

Daenerys turns back to him, her smile gone. “Tell me truly, Robb Stark. Do the people of Westeros want me as their queen?”

The question takes him aback, but only for a moment. Of course Daenerys would want to know. She’s spent all her life in Essos, and what Westerosi she’s known there have been exiles and traitors. She doesn’t know the smallfolk of Westeros, the very people she means to rule. 

“Then again,” she continues, “perhaps the Warden of the North’s son is not the best person to ask about the smallfolk of Westeros.”

He bows his head. “Perhaps not, but as it so happens, I spent some time with a band of outlaws in the Riverlands, and we made friends with the smallfolk there.”

Daenerys raises an eyebrow. “I’m intrigued.”

“They’ve accompanied my aunt here. We called ourselves the Brotherhood without Banners. We were led by Lord Beric Dondarrion of Blackhaven and the red priest Thoros of Myr.”

“ _ Were _ ?”

“Still are, I suppose,” he admits. “Only, it feels a bit odd, to name myself a member of an outlaw band when I am, as you said, the Warden of the North’s son.”

She smiles again. “It feels odd to me too. What made you join this brotherhood?”

“It was by chance, really. My companion, Theon Greyjoy, and I were in Dorne when word came of my aunt’s expulsion from the capital. We were headed north when we ran into the brotherhood. They had also been forced to leave King’s Landing; some because Stannis Baratheon ordered it, others because they were loyal to my aunt. They offered us their company on the road north. When we got to the Riverlands, Theon learned that his father had named himself king of the Iron Islands again. When my father took Theon as his ward, it was with the understanding that if Balon Greyjoy ever rose in rebellion again, it would be at the cost of Theon’s life. We feared returning to Winterfell should my father fulfill his duty. So we wandered for a time, until we felt it was safe to return to Winterfell.”

Daenerys considers him. “You are a true friend.”

“I hope to always be true to my friends,” he says honestly. “And to answer your question, Your Grace, the people of Westeros want peace and plenty. If you can give that to them, they will sing your praises.”

“You don’t think they’ve been sewing dragon banners and raising toasts to my health in secret?” she asks dryly. “That’s what Illyrio Mopatis had me believe, when I was a child sheltering in his manse. Ser Jorah told me that the common people pray for rain, healthy children, and a summer that never ends.”

“He is right,” Robb allows. “And they will pray for you, if you can give that to them.”

Her gaze softens. “Jon was right about you.”

That surprises him. “About me?”

“Yes. He said you were a good person.”

Robb smiles. “I’m honored to hear it...especially coming from Jon.”

She smiles back. “Take care you don’t get lost again, Robb Stark.”

“I’ll try not to, my queen.”

She leaves with her maid, who has remained silent through this whole interaction. Robb watches them ascend the stairs, speaking in a tongue he thinks might be Valyrian. 

Even after she’s gone, Robb can’t stop smiling.


	82. LYANNA XXIII

A hot bath next to a roaring fire warms away the chill of the sea. Manderly men bring her things ashore while she’s bathing, so by the time she steps out, there’s a dry woollen gown waiting for her. 

She’s sitting by the fire, letting her hair dry and drinking some of the tea Wynafryd brought up from the kitchens, when a knock sounds on her door.

“It’s your son, Your Grace,” Dacey announces.

Lyanna straightens up in her chair. “Let him in. And leave us, please.”

Her ladies file out of the room just as Jon enters; Ros pulls the door shut behind her, and Jon kneels to kiss his mother’s hand. 

She beams at him, resting a hand in his thick black curls. He’s all Stark, her boy. 

_ Not a boy anymore. _

“Thank you for coming to see me,” she says sincerely. “I wanted to catch up with you.”

“I wanted the same.” He drags the other chair closer to hers, sitting across from her. “I heard you were dead.”

“Ah.” She looks down at her teacup. “Yes.”

“Tyrion told me a little about it.”

“But you want to hear it from me.”

He reaches over to squeeze her hand. “You  _ died. _ Of course I want to hear it from you.”

She takes a deep breath. “In truth, there’s very little to tell. Roose Bolton had secretly allied with the Lannisters to become Warden of the North; all he had to do was get the Starks out of the way. He came to my chamber when I was alone and stabbed me. I was dead for three days, and on the third day, the Lord of Light worked through Melisandre to bring me back to life.” Her hand drifts to her belly, touching the scar that will never heal. 

“How did she know to do it?”

“She said he spoke to her. I have never  _ doubted _ her abilities, but this...changed my perspective.” She sets aside her teacup. “Robb’s friend Thoros of Myr is a red priest who was sent to convert Robert. They were both drunken sots, if truth be told, but Robb tells me that Thoros has brought Beric Dondarrion back from the dead several times.”

Jon blinks. “Several?”

“Several,” she confirms. “It’s possible Melisandre has the same ability, but I don’t want to test that theory.”

“Nor do I,” he says darkly. “Seven hells. Do you think they can bring back anyone?”

“Another theory I don’t want to test. Melisandre said it’s because the Lord of Light is not finished with me, and my life serves a purpose. I suppose that’s true. But I cannot imagine what purpose a lord turned outlaw like Beric Dondarrion serves. Then again, it is not my place to know.” She forces a smile. “But enough about death. Tell me all about your adventures.”

He gives her a grim look. “They are not pretty songs.”

“They never are.”

He tells her about finding Daenerys and Viserys at Vaes Dothrak, how disappointed he’d been in Viserys, how enchanted he’d been with Daenerys. He tells her about Daenerys eating the heart of the stallion and naming her child Rhaego. He tells her about their journey south, how they had lost everything, including Daenerys’s child, and how she had walked into the flames of her husband’s funeral pyre and walked out with three dragons. He tells her about the long, bitter journey across the Red Waste, how they’d been brought to Qarth, the greatest city that ever was or will be, and about the House of the Undying. He tells her about Strong Belwas, and how they stopped in Astapor to test his loyalty. He tells her about Daenerys’s cunning with the slavers, and how the Unsullied had sacked the city and freed every slave. He tells her about the march to Yunkai, the march to Meereen, the Sons of the Harpy, and the massacre in Daznak’s Pit before Drogon had swooped in to carry Daenerys away. He tells her how they found her again in Vaes Dothrak, where she had survived the fires once more and commanded the respect of every Dothraki there. He tells her how they retook the city of Meereen from the slavers, and finally, how they’d sailed across the world, only to land here today.

“You’ve had quite the adventure,” she says with a smile.

“I’m just glad to be back.” 

He sounds tired, and it breaks her heart to say, “Your adventures aren’t over yet, I’m afraid.”

“No,” he agrees. “But at least they’ll be here, in my home country, with my family.”

She squeezes his hand. “Taking back the throne should not pose too much of a problem. It’s facing the Army of the Dead that will be the real battle.”

“How will we take back the throne?” he asks gently. “I assume my sister will not yield it easily.”

She swallows. “No, I don’t suppose she will. Stannis is her regent--or was, I suppose, as now she’s come of age. Even so, he will be whispering in her ear. My good-brother is a noble man, but a stubborn one. He held Storm’s End for a year, and he may do the same with King’s Landing. And he likely knows that we will not rain dragonfire down upon the city.”

“Then how do we convince her to bend the knee?”

She takes a deep breath. “I have been wondering that...and I think our best hope is if I talk to her. Alone.”

Jon raises his eyebrows. “Send you under a white banner?”

“Well...not quite. You see, I have a feeling that if I go...publicly, it will not do us any favors. Cassie will not be happy to see me, I’m sure, and I don’t want our reunion to be surrounded by her courtiers. I think it would be best if I snuck into the city.”

“Snuck in?” he asks incredulously. “Mother, you’re the dowager queen, you’ll be recognized.”

“On the contrary, I think hardly anyone will recognize me until I get to the Red Keep. The smallfolk only catch glimpses of the highborns, and always from a distance. The only reason they know that those people are important is because they have horses, clothes, and guards. Dragonstone is evacuated, as we can see, and the coast is likely also evacuating. People from all over will be crowding into the city, seeking the protection of the queen against the Targaryens and the Northmen. No one will look twice at a single woman simply dressed.”

He hesitates. “It...could work.”

“I think it will. I’m no stranger to the streets of King’s Landing; I used to dress as a common woman and wander them with Jon Arryn, paying visits to my husband’s many bastards. He had one on nearly every street, you know. I can get to the Red Keep, and if the Lord of Light is on my side, I can sneak into the keep and find my daughter.”

Jon seems skeptical. “That sounds almost too easy.”

“It does,” she agrees. “But I think it will work. In the worst case, I’ll be recognized, seized, and brought to the Red Keep, but at least then I have a better chance of speaking to Cassie alone.”

He considers this. “Well...if you think so.”

“I do. And I think the sooner, the better.”

“How soon?”

“Tomorrow, perhaps.”

His face falls. “You only just got here.”

“I know,” she says gently. “But the Army of the Dead waits for no man. The sooner I get to Cassie, the sooner I can negotiate the terms of her surrender--if she will agree to one--and the sooner she surrenders, the sooner we can end the war with the Lannisters, restore the Iron Islands to Asha Greyjoy, and march north with the full force of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Won’t you let me come with you?”

In the same gentle tone, she tells him, “I think seeing you there might make things worse for Cassie. She will take it as a slight that I sought to put a Targaryen on the throne over her, and she will take it as a greater slight if I bring my secret firstborn with me. This should be between her and me.”

He nods his understanding. “I’ll speak with Dany. I’m sure she will give her consent; she wants to take the throne with as little bloodshed as possible.”

“We all want that.”

He hesitates. “What if she doesn’t agree, though? Cassie?”

“I don’t know,” Lyanna admits. “I hope it will not come to that, but...she is half Baratheon. Robert defied the rightful king, Stannis held Storm’s End even when he and his own wife were reduced to eating the glue from books, and they are descended from Argella Durrandon, who did not surrender to the Targaryens of her own accord. Cassie may well refuse, and that will make this much harder. We’d have to lay siege to King’s Landing. The people would starve, and they’d grow to resent Baratheon and Targaryen alike. It could take months. In the end, Cassie would have to choose between saving her people and keeping her birthright. I hope she will make the right decision and save her people...but what if she has too much of Robert and Stannis in her?”

It’s something she’s feared for a long time now. Jon is all Lyanna and no Rhaegar, but what if Cassie is all Robert and no Lyanna? 

Jon reaches forward to squeeze her hand. “She is half Baratheon, yes, but she is also half Stark.  _ Winter is Coming. _ Those are our words. They are her words too.”

_ And the Baratheon words are ‘Ours is the Fury’. Which will burn harder, I wonder? The flames of fury or the bite of winter? _

.

Dinner is not an extravagant affair, but it is a hearty one. The motley assortment of Northerners, the Brotherhood without Banners, Greyjoys, Unsullied, Dothraki, and everyone in between gather in the great hall and enjoy the ample food left behind in the larders.

Lyanna has a seat of honor at the high table beside Daenerys, who charms her at every turn. The young queen is beautiful and wise beyond her years, and though she has achieved more in a few years than most achieve in a lifetime, she asks Lyanna for advice and listens with rapt attention.

“Jon says you wish to go to King’s Landing alone and speak to your daughter in private,” she says halfway through dinner.

“I do,” Lyanna confirms. “I think it will be more effective than sending envoys.”

“I think so too,” Daenerys agrees, surprising Lyanna. “I think she will be more willing to negotiate with her mother in private than with a stranger in public.”

“Exactly,” Lyanna says in relief. “I was hoping to ride out tomorrow.”

“I think that best; the sooner, the better.” Daenerys dabs at her mouth with a napkin. “I trust you to offer whatever terms are acceptable to her; I know pride is not an easy thing to swallow. However, I would like for her to leave the capital once she has bent the knee, and for her to be separated from her Baratheon uncles. I have spoken to Oberyn Martell; he has offered to let her stay in the Water Gardens under the care of his brother Prince Doran until the war has been won, at which point I would be happy to offer her land and a keep. If she wishes to marry, I will trust you to arrange the marriage to someone not like to try and put her back on the throne.”

Lyanna considers this. The Water Gardens are probably the safest place for her while the Army of the Dead moves, and after that, perhaps she can come back North. If she wants to, that is. And she would dearly like to separate her from Stannis. Not that she thinks he’s going to try and put Cassie back on the throne, but Lyanna is sure he has no love for his brother’s widow, and she so wants to mend her relationship with Cassie. 

“I understand, Your Grace. I’m sure we can work out something.”

“What do you need to speed you on your way?”

“Passage to the mainland and a horse.”

“You’re sure you want to go alone?” Daenerys presses.

Lyanna nods. “I’m positive.”

But when she tells her plan to Ros that night, the other woman shakes her head. “You’re not going alone.”

“Yes I am,” Lyanna says peevishly. “It will be safer.”

“And if you encounter bandits or rapers or otherwise dishonest folk? Will you still be safe then?”

“I can take care of myself, Ros. I know how to fight.”

“You know how to fight like a lordling,” Ros dismisses. “But do you know how to fight  _ dirty, _ the way hungry men on the road do?”

Lyanna hesitates, because no, she doesn’t know how to fight dirty. She can use a sword, she can shoot an arrow, she unhorsed men at the tourney of Harrenhal, but if she met bandits on the road, could she fight them?

“They’re less likely to attack two women riding together,” Ros continues. “Let me come with you. I can fight dirty, if I need to.”

“I don’t like dragging you into this. If I’m discovered at the Red Keep, they may well throw me in the black cells.”

“You’re not dragging me, I’m forcing my way into it,” Ros says stubbornly. “And if they throw us in the black cells, I’ll beguile the guards until they let us out. I wasn’t a whore for nothing, you know. I’m coming with you, and you can’t stop me.”

“No, I don’t think I can,” Lyanna agrees with a smile. “Very well. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Ros presses her forehead to Lyanna’s. “When will you learn that I’d do anything for you?”

“I don’t want you to do anything for me,” Lyanna insists. “I want you to know that you don’t have to do anything for me, and you can walk away whenever you want.”

“But I  _ don’t _ want to walk away. I want to be with you.”

Lyanna sighs. “I know, it’s just...it’s not going to get any easier. Things are only going to get harder. You may be singing a different song in time.”

“Do you think I’m a child who doesn’t know what’s happening? I may not be a Stark, but I was born in the shadow of Winterfell, and I know the words.  _ Winter is Coming. _ I’m ready for it, and I will stay by your side as long as you will let me.”

“Like I said,” Lyanna whispers. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”


	83. BENJEN V

Benjen wakes to a dark sky. It isn’t early; it’s just that it’s dark more often than it isn’t these days.

Jaime is already gone; Benjen pushes away the momentary sadness, knowing that he’ll see the other man later. They have to be careful; it isn’t unheard of for men in the Watch to take one another as lovers, but it would be the subject of much gossip if First Ranger Benjen Stark was fucking the Kingslayer Jaime Lannister, and it could cost them both a fair amount of respect. 

The men have finally started showing Jaime some respect, or something like it. Returning with a live wight seemed to have done the trick. Even if fetching the wight had largely been useless; Ned and enough Northern lords had fought at Hardhome to spread word of what they saw, and no one had needed a wight as proof. Lord Commander Mormont had ordered them to keep the wight in one of the ice cells, just in case the southerners still needed convincing. Wrapped in a burlap sack and held in a chained cage, Benjen is told that the wight is mostly quiet, but every now and then it shrieks and rattles, sometimes for hours on end. The men who are ordered to stand watch hate it, never sure what will set off the thing, if anything at all. 

“Sometimes it’s like he’s trying to talk to someone,” Dolorous Edd once said. “Someone only he can hear.”

_ The Great Other? _ Benjen wonders.  _ Or something else? _

Lommy brings up Benjen’s breakfast now, yawning as he sets down the tray of bacon, toast, and turnips soaked in gravy. They’ll have to move on to winter rations soon, so Benjen enjoys the meal while he can. He’ll miss the taste when he’s mixing water with acorn paste. But maybe Hot Pie will find a way to make it taste halfway decent. He’s a wonder in the kitchens, and the cuisine at Castle Black has improved markedly since he took his vows. 

_ The day that boy dies, every man here will mourn for a year. _

“I heard that Lord Stark and his host have moved south,” Lommy says conversationally. “And that the dragon queen finally landed at Dragonstone.”

“Where did you hear this?”

“Samwell Tarly was telling Pyp and Grenn. He read the raven’s scroll to Maester Aemon.”

The poor old man doesn’t have long left in him. When they do cut down to winter rations, Benjen has no doubt that Aemon will be the first to go. 

“Good,” Benjen decides. “The sooner Daenerys and her dragons come north, the sooner we can march on the Army of the Dead. Do you happen to know if Samwell wrote to them about the dragonglass?”

Lommy opens his mouth, but the watcher’s horn sounds.

Benjen frowns. He doesn’t know of any rangers leaving the Wall. They’d purposely stopped all rangings beyond the Wall to keep the men safe, and there’s no reason for anyone to be south of the Wall. 

A second blast. Wildlings? But that doesn’t make sense. The wildlings have evacuated, and they’re no longer foes, so why would the watcher sound the horn? Unless…

A third blast.

_ White walkers. _

Benjen abandons his breakfast so quickly he turns over his chair, shoving gloves over his hands as he strides to the lift. There are others crowding around, curious, but they part for Benjen and Lord Mormont.

“White walkers?” Benjen asks as they step inside. The other men rush to the stairs, climbing as quickly as their legs allow.

“Well, it would be time now, wouldn’t it?”

The way up is eerily silent, the only sound the creaking of the lift. Benjen doesn’t know what he was expecting. A roar of thunder announcing the coming of the white walkers? Eldritch screaming? The rumble of the Wall falling to pieces?

But it’s silent even when they step out of the lift. The two men stride to the north side of the Wall, where the sentries are all leaning over to watch.

Standing there along the treeline are pale, icelike men, and emerging from the woods behind them are rotted corpses in ragged furs.

“What do we do?” Benjen asks Mormont in a low voice.

Mormont shakes his head. “I have no idea. They can’t cross the Wall, and they can’t hope to attack.”

He’s right; even if the Wall isn’t imbued with magic as Old Nan used to say, it’s nigh impenetrable. An army of rotted corpses can’t break through it or tear it down. So what are they going to do?

An hour passes where the dead do nothing but stare up at them, and they do nothing but stare back. Then another hour, and another. The sun rises and sets, and still the dead do nothing.

“This is worse than an attack, I think,” Benjen mutters. 

“Aye. They want to wait us out.”

“Wait out what?”

“I don’t know,” Mormont admits. “But they must have something up their sleeve.”

He’s right, but what? 

Benjen summons the nearest wide-eyed steward and instructs him to check on the wight in the ice cells and report back.

Half an hour later, Samwell Tarly puffs his way towards him, pink-cheeked and shining with sweat. 

“It’s silent as the grave,” he tells the First Ranger. “The men on duty said it hasn’t stirred.”

“Let’s hope it remains that way,” Benjen says grimly. 

Mormont scratches his chin. “I want the Wall armed for an attack. I want archers and trebuchets at the ready, and make preparations to flood the tunnel. 

As the men rush off to fulfill his orders, he turns to Benjen with a grim look on his face. “Let us hope the Targaryen queen flies her dragons north before we find out what the Others have in store.”

.

Three days and nights pass with the Army of the Dead standing outside the Wall. Samwell Tarly sends ravens to Eastwatch, Shadow Tower, Last Hearth, Winterfell, Dragonstone, and King’s Landing, explaining the situation and asking for aid, but Benjen knows it will be a long while before anyone responds, and they may not have that much time. 

Sentries stand careful watch on the Wall all night and all day, but they have nothing new to report. The army is still and silent, watching and waiting.

_ For what? _ Benjen wonders, over and over.  _ What are you waiting for? _

On the third night, Lord Commander Mormont orders one of the archers to shoot a flaming arrow at the wights. The wight shrieks and throws itself on the ground, rolling in the snow until the flame is out and the wight is a smoldering ruin. 

The other wights shift and hiss, and even the woods shudder as they move. One of the white walkers opens its mouth, and even from here, they can hear the harsh sound of its tongue, like ice on a frozen lake cracking. 

Benjen doesn’t know how, but somehow, he knows it’s a threat. A promise of things to come if they do it again. 

“Hold,” he tells the archers.

After a long moment, the wights simmer down, going back to their still and silent selves. 

“If we attack them, they respond,” Jaime muses. “But if we don’t do anything, neither do they.”

“I don’t like this,” Jeor declares. “They’re planning something.”

“What could they be planning? The Others are thousands of years old and know nothing about strategy. Maybe their plan is to just stare at us.”

“That’s stupid, even for you,” Benjen huffs at Jaime. 

Jaime splays his hands. “You said yourself they can’t cross the Wall. The Children of the Forest built it with magic to keep them out. Maybe they’re hoping they can drive us mad just by standing outside the Wall and staring. It’s worked so far, hasn’t it? The men are all thoroughly unnerved.”

Benjen has to admit, it  _ has _ been unsettling them all, and they were the ones who made the first attack. Perhaps the Army of the Dead is hoping that they can madden the Night’s Watch into attacking until they have a way through the Wall.

But that seems too primitive for them, even if they are ancient creatures. They wouldn’t have spent eight thousand years lying in wait for  _ this _ to be their only plan, would they?

Then again, no one ever said the white walkers were smart, just evil. They’re a threat because they kill indiscriminately and with brute strength, not because they’re masters at battle strategy. The world has changed so much since they last roamed; what if it’s changed too much for them to handle?

It begs the question, yet again, of  _ what do they want? _ To wipe out mankind, yes, to dwell in eternal winter, yes, but why? To what end? Why do they want to leave the Land of Always Winter and come  _ here? _

“Let’s leave it for now,” Jeor decides. “With any luck they’ll stay this way until we have reinforcements.”

Benjen mislikes that. It will take weeks for anyone to get to them, no matter how hard they ride. The North is empty, the armies down south, and he doubts even dragons can fly fast enough to save them.

But what other choice do they have? Attack now and incur the wrath of the dead. Wait and who knows what will happen?

No, better to wait. At least it will buy them time. 

Benjen turns to face south. All of Westeros lies before him, a black sea of fields and furrows beneath a starry sky. 

_ Hurry back, Ned, _ he finds himself thinking.  _ And bring your dragon queen before it’s too late. _


	84. LYANNA XXIV

The Red Keep rises up over the horizon long before they reach it. As always, Lyanna feels nothing but dread at the sight of her former home. She has never liked returning to the Red Keep, and she  _ especially _ doesn’t like returning now.

All around her, men, women, and children are exclaiming in admiration. They’ve never seen anything like the Red Keep before, and never will again.

_ It’s not as grand as it looks, _ Lyanna wants to tell them. 

Just as she had predicted, they have had no trouble on the road. Many people in the Crownlands are headed to King’s Landing for protection, and no one had looked twice at two women simply dressed. Some had even shared their fires and food, and when they’ve had to stop and rest, they were fortunate enough to find large parties where the men took it in turns to keep watch. Lyanna had barely slept the first night, afraid they were about to be robbed, but they never were. 

She wonders now if their good luck is about to run out. She knows she can get them to the keep without trouble, but how to get in? She could take the back way, of course, but even that will be heavily patrolled, especially with so many people flooding into the city. 

It takes forever to get to the Dragon Gate; the guards are waving most people through, but some they stop to search. Lyanna wonders what they’re looking for, exactly. A Targaryen banner? A note that says  _ The Lannisters send their regards. _ ? 

She and Ros are waved through, where they empty out onto the Street of Silk. Lyanna urges her mount in the opposite direction, towards the Street of Flour. They pass through Flea Bottom before hitting the Street of Looms, and from there, it’s a straight shot to the Red Keep.

“So what is your plan, exactly?”

“I don’t have one,” Lyanna admits. “The servants’ entrance should still be open, though maybe more heavily guarded now…”

“Useless,” Ros says, shaking her head. “I’ll get us in.”

Lyanna highly doubts that Ros will have a better plan than her, but because she doesn’t exactly have a  _ good _ plan, she decides to let the other woman take the lead.

There are guards posted at the gate, two household men that look vaguely familiar to Lyanna. Ros, however, recognizes them right away.

“Wyl! Edd!” she calls gaily.

“Is that Ros I see? Redheaded Ros?”

“Are there any others?” she asks, reigning up. 

One of the guards uses his pike to push up his helm. “We thought you’d left the city.”

“I did, for a bit. Back now, though. Do you know, I wasn’t in the city five minutes when Lord Renly asked me to come...say hello?”

One of the men raises his eyebrows. “Lord Renly? Truly? I heard he was…” He makes an indescribable motion with his hand. 

“He likes it both ways, if you take my meaning,” Ros says with a wink. “But you didn’t hear it from me.”

“‘Course not. That why you’re here?” At last, the guards look at Lyanna. “And your friend…?”

“Jeyne, yes.” Ros bats her lashes. “Can you let us through? I didn’t bring Lord Renly’s note, I’m afraid.”

“You never need a note, Ros,” one of them says gamely. 

“Thanks, boys.” Ros digs her heels into her mount, urging the horse on. Lyanna follows close behind, not daring to look back at the guards.

“Did you know that would happen?”

“That former customers would be manning the gate? No, but I knew I’d be able to get past them. Whores always come through this servants’ entrance so the highborns don’t have to look at them,” Ros explains. “It’s how I always got in to see you.”

The servants’ stables are not as well manned as the main stables, but that works in their favor; Ros pays the boys to feed and water the horses, and no sooner have they turned to go in through the kitchens than someone Lyanna had not expected in this part of the keep steps outside to greet them.

“My sweet good-sister,” Renly Baratheon says with a bright smile. “It has been far too long.”

She should have known they wouldn’t get far. “Lord Renly.”

“Oh, come now, we are still family, are we not? Renly will suffice.” He kisses both Lyanna’s cheeks; she stiffens under the gesture. “And accompanied by yet another redhead. You have a type, good-sister.” 

“We can dispense with the pleasantries,” Lyanna snaps. “What’s it to be, the black cells?”

He presses a hand to his heart. “Good-sister, you wound me. I would never throw you in the black cells. You must have mistaken me for my brother. Come, let’s go somewhere private.” He takes Lyanna’s arm, leading her into the kitchens; cooks and scullions look up at them, but no one says a word. 

_ Do they recognize me? _ Lyanna wonders. Her clothes are plain and there’s no reason for her to be in the Red Keep, but side by side with Renly, will any of them put two and two together?

They take the servants’ stairs up to his rooms, where he closes the door behind him before turning to Lyanna. 

“I’m glad you’re here.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Really,” he says sincerely. “Stannis and I have been urging your daughter to bend the knee, but she’s as stubborn as Robert, I’m afraid.”

Lyanna wasn’t expecting Renly to admit so readily that they want to submit to Daenerys. But as for Cassie…

“Why?”

Renly gives her a look. “Forgive me, Lyanna, but...you  _ did _ conspire to put a Targaryen on the throne, and kept your own Targaryen bastard a secret from her.”

Lyanna bows her head. “I did.”

“I can hardly blame you,” Renly says gently. “I loved my brother, but he was not a good king, or a good husband.”

“It was never about that,” Lyanna protests. “It was about my son. Jon never would have been safe if Robert knew the truth.”

“You’re right,” Renly agrees. “He would have killed him, and expected you to marry him anyway. I say again, I loved my brother, but he had many, many faults, and child-killing was certainly one of them.”

She nods, grateful he understands. “Does Cassie...does she know?”

“She knows as much as any of us down here. That Jon Snow is your son by Rhaegar, and that you worked to put a Targaryen back on the throne because you believe in this...prophecy.”

“Do you believe it?”

“Quite honestly?” He splays his hands. “I don’t know. If it was anyone else, I’d say they were lying or mad, but you’re not a liar or a fool. Well, not  _ much, _ anyway. Reports from the North would confirm all you’ve said. So I suppose I believe some part of it.”

“That will have to be enough.” She takes a deep breath. “May I see her, please?”

He holds up a finger. “First, I want your assurance that I will be treated well when Daenerys takes the throne.”

“So long as you bend the knee, you will be.”

“And the children, Tommen and Myrcella?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Cersei’s bastards?”

“They may not have my blood, but I consider them mine all the same, and I want to ensure that their mother’s crimes will not affect them.”

Lyanna considers this. “I can think of no reason Queen Daenerys would not let them live happy lives. I will speak to her.”

“That will have to be enough,” he echoes. “I’ll bring her here.”

“I’ll wait in the kitchens,” Ros murmurs, squeezing Lyanna’s hand before slipping out the servants’ door. 

Renly watches her go with a smirk.

“What?” Lyanna asks defensively.

“Nothing, only...she’s  _ very _ pretty.”

“Almost as pretty as the Tyrell boy I hear you’re fucking?”

“No, no, Loras is  _ far _ prettier.” He leaves the room, whistling as he closes the door behind him.

.

Lyanna waits in Renly’s chamber for a long time. She isn’t wholly surprised; Cassie is the queen now, and Lyanna is sure she’s busy with ruling the country, fighting the Lannisters, and preparing for a Targaryen attack.

_ God willing, there won’t be one. _

She’s looking out the window when the door opens; when she turns, she sees Renly accompanied by a young woman.

Only, it isn’t a young woman, it’s  _ Cassie. _

Cassie’s eyes widen. “Mother?!”

Lyanna feels tears spring to her eyes. In just under a week, she’s been reunited with both of her children. “It’s me.”

Renly gently closes the door, leaving the two women alone. Cassie’s face changes from surprised to angered.

“What are you doing here?”

Lyanna takes a deep breath. “I know you’re angry with me--”

“That’s an understatement.”

She’s quick to anger, just like her father...but she tempers her fire with an icy tongue, just like Lyanna. “I want to apologize, Cass. I never meant for it to happen like this.”

“How did you mean for it to happen? Letting the dragon queen kill my father? Putting your _other child_ on the throne?”

“Jon was never meant for the throne,” she says softly. “And your father...well, I wasn’t sure what would happen. In many ways, I think he would have welcomed a Targaryen invasion.”

Cassie gapes at her. “You’re joking.”

“No. He was a warrior, your father. He did not like ruling. I think he would have preferred to go to war again, and die in a blaze of glory.”

Cassie stares at her. “Is that what you wanted? For my father to die in battle?”

“It’s what Robert wanted. He didn’t want to be king. Tywin Lannister made him king. Robert wanted to drink and whore and fight.”

“Did you hate him the whole time?”

Lyanna breathes deeply. “I didn’t hate him. Nor did I love him.”

“Did you love Rhaegar?” 

Lyanna eases herself into the closest chair. “That is a...complicated question.” 

Cassie remains standing, arms folded as she waits for her mother to continue.

“I thought I loved him at first. He saw a side to me that few men did. He was married to a woman he said he did not love, I was betrothed to a man I did not love. We exchanged letters in secret. When I rode south to attend my brother’s wedding, Rhaegar met me on the road, and together we made for Dorne. I gave him my maidenhead and conceived his child.” She shakes her head. “I was such a fool. Rhaegar found a septon to marry us so that our child would be trueborn. I didn’t care. I was stupid enough to believe we’d be happy, just the three of us, living in secret in Dorne. Rhaegar already had a trueborn son, and I thought he would rule the Seven Kingdoms while Rhaegar and I raised our own son together.” She swallows. “I had not had any word from the outside world in this time, until Rhaegar brought me to the Tower of Joy and locked me in it with a nursemaid for our baby. Wylla. She told me that Aerys had killed my father and brother Brandon, and that Robert had raised a rebellion to win me back. I screamed and raged at Rhaegar, because  _ he knew. _ And he had said nothing. He told me it was meant to be.”

“The prophecy?” Cassie whispers.

Lyanna nods. “The dragon has three heads. That’s what he kept saying. His father’s hold on the Seven Kingdoms was weak, and they needed Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters reborn. Elia could not give him anymore children, so once he saw I was with child, he wed me so that our child would be a true Targaryen, the Visenya to Aegon and Rhaenys.”

Cassie looks perturbed. “He believed that?”

“He did. He said that Aegon, his Aegon, was the Prince that was Promised, and his was the song of ice and fire. And then he rode off to face Robert on the Trident.” Lyanna shakes her head. “I hated him so much then. I had never wanted to start a war. I had only wanted to love and be loved. I had only wanted to be free. But Rhaegar kept me locked in a tower with three men of the kingsguard serving as my gaolers. I wasn’t allowed to leave; only Wylla was allowed to go, and one of them had to accompany her. She was the one who brought back the news that Rhaegar had died on the Trident, and later, she was the one who told me about the sack of King’s Landing. I wept for Elia and her children, but I could not muster so much as a tear for Rhaegar. I realized that all of this was his doing. He killed his wife and children as much as the Lannister men did.

“But it wasn’t just Rhaegar. It was Robert, too. Ned told me...when they presented Rhaenys and Aegon to him, wrapped in Lannister crimson so as to hide the blood, Robert looked away as if he couldn’t see them.” Lyanna balls her hands into fists. “That’s what Ned told me when he found me in the Tower of Joy, after he and Howland Reed killed the kingsguard. I had just given birth to my son, I was still bloody from birth, but there was no time to mourn our father and brother or celebrate the birth of my son. Ned offered to take the child as his so that I could return to Robert and give the singers the happy ending they longed for.” She can feel tears pricking at her eyes. “I never nursed my son, never named him, never called him mine. My milk came and went, the bleeding stopped between my legs, and the roundness of my belly flattened once more. Ned took Jon north, I married Robert, and it was as if it had never happened.” She blows out a breath. “Well, almost. I thought about Jon constantly, and I never stopped resenting Robert for being the reason I had to part with my child.”

Cassie takes the chair opposite Lyanna, chewing her lip. “Did you...did you resent me?”

Lyanna does start crying at this. “Oh, sweetling,  _ no _ , I love you. I’ve always loved you. Holding you in my arms was the happiest I’ve ever felt.”

There are tears in Cassie’s eyes as well. “Really? Even...even more than Jon?”

Lyanna reaches forward, brushing the tears from Cassie’s cheeks. “Jon’s birth was bittersweet for me, and more bitter than sweet. But you...you were mine to keep from the very beginning. I loved you from the moment I felt you in my belly, and I have never stopped loving you.”

Cassie wipes her eyes. “Do you love Jon more than me?”

“No. Never.”

Cassie sobs openly now, and though she is a woman grown, though she is the Queen Regnant of the Seven Kingdoms, she lets her mother pull her into her lap as if she was a little girl again. 

“I never wanted to leave you here,” Lyanna murmurs. “I would have taken you with me if I could have.”

Cassie weeps for a long moment, trying and failing to compose herself. Lyanna rubs her back and strokes her hair and sings lullabies she hasn’t sung in many years. It feels so good to be with her daughter again, to hold her as she has not in years. 

“I’m scared,” she finally manages. “I’m so scared, Mother. I don’t know what I’m doing. I pretend I do, but...it’s so much harder than Father made it look.”

“Your father let Jon Arryn do most of the ruling for him,” Lyanna says grimly. “I’m so sorry, my sweet Cass. This was never what I wanted for you.”

“What did you want for me?”

“The same things I wanted for me. To love and be loved. To be free.”

Cassie is quiet for a long moment, aside from her sniffles. At last, she asks, “What would happen, if I...bent the knee?”

Lyanna tries not to show her relief. “Daenerys bears you no ill will. Once the war is won, she’ll give you lands and a keep, and should you want to wed, I’ll arrange the marriage.”

“I wouldn’t be...a captive?”

“Not at all, sweetling.”

Cassie considers this. “If I bend the knee, I’ll always be known as the Queen Who Knelt.”

“There are worse things to be,” Lyanna says gently. “If you bend the knee, you’ll be the queen who spared her people. You can live a quiet, easy life.”

Cassie thinks for a long moment. “Before, you mentioned...the Prince that was Promised. But I heard you think Daenerys is the Prince that was Promised.”

“I do,” Lyanna agrees. “I believe she is the one to lead us out of the Long Night.”

“You believe that the white walkers have come back?”

“I do. Your Uncle Ned fought them, and your Uncle Benjen has written of them often. When I went beyond the Wall--”

“You went beyond the Wall?!”

“I did. I went to treat with the wildling king, Mance Rayder, to brook safe passage through the Wall for him and his wildlings. They’ve all seen these creatures. Even the Northmen who haven’t seen believe.”

“Is it true you died?” Cassie asks abruptly. “Varys said you did.”

“I did. Roose Bolton killed me, and Lady Melisandre brought me back.” When Cassie has a skeptical look on her face, Lyanna stands up. “Look, I’ll show you.” She pulls up her dress and shift, showing Cassie the scar on her abdomen. 

Cassie stares at it in awe. “It looks...new.”

“It isn’t. It will just...never heal.” 

Cassie reaches forward, touching it gently. It always looks as if blood will come away, but it never does. “The Lannisters will pay. For this and for their many other crimes.”

“They will,” Lyanna swears, dropping her dress. “But my love...you do not have the armies to achieve that.”

Cassie straightens up. “I will bend the knee,” she decides at last. 

Lyanna sags in relief. “ _ Thank you, _ Cassie.”

Cassie grips her hand. “Will you stay with me? Not go back to Daenerys?”

“Of course.” Lyanna had not planned to stay in the capital, but then, she hadn’t thought Cassie would want her to stay. “Let me write to her, to summon her here.”

“I’ll send my fastest riders,” Cassie promises. “I just...I don’t want to watch you leave again.”

Lyanna wraps her arms around her daughter. “I don’t want to leave you again.”

Cassie buries her face in her shoulder, stifling more sobs. “I’ve missed you so much, Mother.”

“You have no idea how badly I’ve missed you, Cass.” Lyanna kisses the top of her head. “Everything will be alright now. I promise.”


	85. ARYA V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hey guys remember what I said about commenting.**

She finds him in the smithy.

She didn’t mean to find him, or the smithy, she was just looking for Nymeria when she stumbled into both. 

Gendry looks up at her, blue eyes burning beneath a fringe of black hair. “Looking for something?”

“My wolf.” 

He looks back down at the sword he’s sharpening. It’s a pretty, dark sword, not made of steel. “Haven’t seen her.”

“Nobody has. What’s that?”

“This?” He glances up at her again. “Dragonglass. Supposed to be good at killing white walkers. Dragonstone is full of it. Queen Lyanna’s asked me to make as many as I can.”

Arya tilts her head, watching him sharpen the blade against the grindstone. “Can you use it?”

“What, the sword?”

“Any sword.”

“Yeah.” He takes his foot off the pedal, blowing on the blade. Some shavings come loose, glittering black specks that float to the ground. “Not very good at it, but I can hold my own in a fight.”

Remembering Dacey’s advice, Arya probes, “Can you wrestle?”

He looks at her oddly. “‘Course I can.”

“Let’s see, then.”

The look he gives her now is even odder than the first. “What, you want to wrestle me?”

“Well, it wouldn’t be fair if we sparred with swords,” she says reasonably, as if there’s any reason to the madness she’s suggested. “I’d beat you. But if you’re afraid of losing to a girl…”

“I’m not afraid of losing to a girl.” His brow is furrowed. “Just don’t see why you’d want to.”

“I just do,” she lies. 

When he just keeps staring at her, she huffs. This was a stupid idea. She’s going to tell Dacey it was stupid, and then she’s going to go to Wynafryd for  _ real _ advice. She turns on her heel, leaving the smithy.

She hears the clatter of the blade a moment before heavy footfalls; dropping ever so slightly into a crouch, she turns swiftly, sticking a foot between his legs and tripping him up. He takes her down with him, though, and with a shout, they roll across the floor of the smithy. He’s very strong, but she’s quicker. Every time he tries to hold her still she wriggles free and punches him. Gendry only laughs at the blows, though his breath is ragged when he does, and he finally catches both her wrists in one hand and starts to tickle her with the other. Arya slams her knee between his legs and wrenches free. Both of them are covered in dirt, and the sleeve of her shirt is ripped. 

Gendry looks up at her as she straightens up, brushing the dirt off her clothes.

“Is that what you wanted?” he asks, red-faced and panting.

In a would-be lofty voice, she says, “Wouldn’t you like to know?” before striding away from the smithy. 

_ Is _ that what she wanted? Dacey said you could find a man’s true character by wrestling him. He hadn’t hurt her, which she supposes is good, but he hadn’t held back just because she’s a girl, either, which is also good. Does that mean  _ he’s _ good, though?

She should find Dacey. Dacey would know.

But as she meanders back to the castle, she doesn’t find Dacey; she finds Robb, walking with Jon and Queen Daenerys. 

“What have you been up to now?” Robb asks, half in amusement, half in exasperation.

“Looking for Nymeria. Have you seen her?”

Robb’s face falls. “No. I haven’t seen Grey Wind all day, either.”

Jon and Daenerys give each other looks.

“What?” 

“Nothing,” Jon lies at once.

Arya puts her hands on her hips. “ _ What _ ?”

“Well…” Jon scratches the back of his neck, still looking at Daenerys. “It’s possible...that they got too close to the dragons.”

Arya can feel her heart sink. “No.”

“Jon and I can go look,” Daenerys offers. “So you don’t...have to.”

“I’ll go,” Robb says grimly. 

“And me,” Arya says, even though the thought of collecting Nymeria’s bones makes her want to cry.  _ Maybe it will be alright, _ she tells herself. Nymeria is a smart wolf, and she wouldn’t get too close to a dragon.

Then again, she is a direwolf, and has rarely met a creature bigger than her. Will she know to stay away?

Arya and Robb follow Jon and Daenerys across the island to the high grassy cliffs the dragons seem to like. Arya’s heart pounds the whole walk over, her hands clenching and unclenching as she thinks of the dragons eating her wolf. Of course they’d eat Nymeria and Grey Wind; they’re dragons, and anything that isn’t a human is theirs to eat. Even some humans are theirs to eat, Arya’s sure. Why would they make an exception for two wolves?

As they cross over a grassy knoll, Arya can see the three great beasts furled on the ground, looking like enormous and particularly murderous kittens as they keep their tails and wings tucked close to their bodies. Their gentle movements suggest deep breathing, almost as if sleeping. Charred bones litter the area; some Arya recognizes as horses and sheep, others, she isn’t so sure about.

They all stir and look up at the newcomers, raising serpentine heads to observe the party. The green one lifts his wing, and to Arya’s relief, Nymeria and Grey Wind look up from the dragon’s side, tails wagging as they recognize their humans. 

“Nymeria!” Arya bellows, and the wolf bounds over to her, licking her face. Grey Wind stretches before trotting leisurely over to Robb, sniffing him before presenting his head for pets.

“Were you making friends?” Daenerys asks in the sort of voice one might use on a baby, coming forward to pet the green dragon. He purrs like a kitten, nuzzling his snout against her. Beside him, the pale gold dragon also cranes forward to nuzzle her, crooning happily when she pets him. Only the black and red sits back, watching them with the lazy disinterest of a grumpy old cat who mislikes affection. 

“I didn’t know dragons were so…”

“Sweet?” Jon asks wryly. “Aye, they are now, because they’re tired after the journey across the sea. They can be utter bastards when they want to be. Especially that one.” He nods at the black and red, who looks at him as if he knows exactly what Jon has said and has chosen not to dignify it with a response.

“Have you ever ridden one?”

“Only once. Rhaegal,” he says, pointing to the green. 

“He will ride him again when we head north,” Daenerys proclaims, one hand one each dragon. “As is befitting a Targaryen.”

“Which one will you ride, Your Grace?” Robb asks.

“Drogon.” She steps away, moving to the black and red. For a moment, Arya is afraid, but the dragon gives a resigned sort of rumble before resting his head on the ground and allowing Daenerys to pet his snout. 

“Rhaegal, Drogon,” Robb names. “And the third…?”

“Viserion.” Daenerys’s face turns sad. “I named them for my brothers, my husband, and my son, all of whom I lost.”

“You had a son?” Arya did not know that. She had known vaguely about Khal Drogo, and that he had died, but she hadn’t known there was a child, too.

“For a moment. He was dead before he was born.” She forces a smile. “Would you like to meet the dragons?”

Arya, who has never been shy in her life, suddenly feels so now. “Can I?”

“Perhaps not Drogon,” Daenerys allows. “But Rhaegal and Viserion are docile enough.”

Arya looks questioningly up at Jon, who grins. “Didn’t you always want to meet a dragon?” he teases. “Come on.” 

She follows him to the green, Rhaegal. The dragon regards her curiously, but she doesn’t sense any threat; his pupils are small, and the blasts of air coming from his snout are steady and even. When she’s close, she can see his nostrils flaring as he smells her.

“Hold out your hand,” Jon tells her. “Slowly so as not to startle him. Then let him come to you.”

She does as he says, slowly reaching out her open palm and then leaving it there. After a moment, Rhaegal pushes his snout against her hand, nearly knocking her off her feet. She laughs, running her hand over the ridge of his snout. His skin is rough and scaly, but when she scratches experimentally, he purrs in contentment. She looks back at Jon and Robb, beaming.

Both of her brothers laugh. 

“If Mother and Father could see you now,” Robb teases.

“Forget them, imagine if  _ Septa Mordane _ could see me now.” She turns back to Rhaegal, smiling and scratching him. 

“Do you want to try, Robb?” Jon asks. 

“He won’t,” Arya teases. “He’s afraid.”

“Braver men than me would be afraid to get too close to a dragon.”

“They won’t hurt you,” Daenerys says kindly. “Here, I’ll take you to Viserion, he’s very gentle.”

Arya watches as Daenerys leads Robb to the pale gold; her brother pulls off his glove, reaching out with trepidation before the other dragon presents his head for petting. Though Robb seems awed by the dragon, Arya cannot help but noticing that her brother keeps glancing at the Targaryen queen, who in turn cannot seem to tear her eyes from him.

“He’s flirting with her,” Jon mutters, stepping in beside Arya so the other two can’t hear them. 

“Well, can you blame him? She’s very pretty, and he’s always liked pretty girls.”

“She’s not just a pretty girl, though,” Jon points out. “She’s our  _ queen _ , and my aunt...though in truth, she’s more like a sister to me.”

“Is that why you have that look on your face? Because Robb’s your brother and Daenerys is your sister, and it’s like watching your brother flirt with your sister?”

Jon nods miserably.

Arya laughs. “Well, you  _ are _ half Targaryen, and she’s full; isn’t your family sort of famous for brothers marrying sisters?”

“Stop. I don’t...please don’t.”

“Your brother’s going to fuck your sister.”

“Alright, that’s it.” Jon picks up Arya. “Rhaegal, open up.”

“Stop!” she shouts between laughs. 

“Come on, I know she’s a bit scrawny, but she’ll make a nice snack--”

“Your Grace!”

They look up as Oberyn Martell approaches. Arya likes Prince Oberyn, from what little she’s seen of him. He’s usually by the queen, but she’d seen him sparring in the yard with his spear earlier, and she’d liked his fighting style. Perhaps she’ll ask him to teach her later.

“Prince Oberyn?”

He offers a bow. “There has been word from my niece, Princess Arianne. The Dornish forces have gathered in the Crownlands with the Riverlands, the Vale, and the North, and they await your command. There has also been word from the capital. Lyanna Stark and her daughter wait at the Red Keep, where they invite you under a peace banner. Cassana Baratheon has sworn she will bend the knee and give you King’s Landing.”

“My mother’s still there?” Jon asks, furrowing his brow.

“She is.”

Jon and Daenerys glance at each other.

“It could be a trap,” he says softly.

“It could be,” Daenerys agrees. “Or it could be the truth. We won’t know until we go.” She heads for the castle, the Starks and Prince Oberyn following her. “If Princess Arianne speaks true, then we’ll have our full forces with us when we march. What trap could the Baratheons possibly have in store for us?”

“They could kill my mother,” Jon says darkly.

“She’s Cassie’s mother, too,” Arya reminds him. “She wouldn’t kill her.”

“The Baratheons might,” Oberyn says in a tone to match Jon’s. 

Daenerys shakes her head. “But to what end? Killing Lyanna Stark would be a great blow, make no mistake, but it would not be a shield against my taking back the city. They’d have nothing to gain from it. If anything, they would be less likely to retain their hold on the city, as I doubt very much Cassana would forgive the murder of her mother. No, let us hope that Lyanna’s hand was not forced and all is as she says it is.”

“And if it is not?”

“If any harm has befallen her, I will show House Baratheon the meaning of  _ fury _ .”


	86. NED IX

Ned rides through the camps, taking stock of all the men that have answered the call. He sees hundreds of thousands of banners waving, everything from simple chequy to noble beasts. Most of them he recognizes from a time long ago.

He reins up outside the commander’s tent, located at the heart of the enormous camp. A boy takes the bridle while Ned dismounts, the Greatjon and Maege Mormont following him. 

Arianne Martell and her Sand Snakes are gathered in the tent, wrapped in furs and drinking wine while Edmure and Jason Mallister regale them with stories. Ned has a feeling the Martell women are listening more out of politeness than actual interest, as he’s been victim to Edmure’s stories on more than one occasion.

“Lord Stark,” Obara Sand greets, offering him a horn of ale. 

“Thank you, Lady Obara.” He knows she is not a true lady by Westerosi standards, but she is the daughter of a prince, and there is no harm in it. She reminds him of Arya, and for that, he cannot help being fond of her. 

“Any news?” Princess Arianne asks, wrapping her furs around her. 

_ Poor child; if she is cold now, she will have a rude awakening when she encounters real winter. If she ever does. _ He cannot imagine Prince Doran letting his eldest daughter and heir march north to face the Army of the Dead, but she is as deadly as her cousins, and they do things differently in Dorne. She is certainly more able than Prince Doran, who is confined to his chair. 

“Ships with the Greyjoy kraken and the Manderly mermaid were seen in Blackwater Bay, and three dragons flying ahead of them. If they’ve seen our camp--and I’d be very surprised if they haven’t--they’ll be here in a matter of hours.”

“Has there been any word from the capital?” Edmure asks. 

“None as of yet, but perhaps Daenerys has been in contact with them.”

He would be surprised if she wasn’t; the capital has to know about Daenerys’s presence in Westeros by now, and Stannis is logical enough to know that if they don’t extend the first offering of peace, it could mean fire and blood.

At least, he  _ hopes _ Stannis is that logical. There again, Stannis did not see the Sack of King’s Landing, and he held Storm’s End against a siege for over a year. What if he holds King’s Landing against a siege? Surely Daenerys would not sack the city as the Lannisters had. But what if she has no other choice? What if the Baratheons will not bend the knee?

_ They will. _

_ They must. _

.

The whole camp gathers to watch as Daenerys’s ships weigh anchor. Ned is eager to see his family again, but he is even more eager to see Jon. It’s been several years since he last saw the boy, and not a day has gone by where he hasn’t thought about him. Jon is Lyanna’s child by birth, but Ned raised him alongside his own children, and he is as much Ned’s child as any of the others. 

One by one, the boats start rowing to shore. Most of the passengers who alight are brown men, Unsullied and Dothraki, but he can see the pale faces of Westerosi dotted here and there. Manderly men and ironborn, he’d guess.

At long last, he sees familiar faces; Robb, Arya, Theon, Asha, Melisandre, Dacey Mormont, Edric Dayne, and all the rest. Nymeria is the first to come ashore; she leaps out of the boat as soon as she sees Ghost, barking gleefully and bounding towards her brother. The two circle each other and sniff while Asha and the men hop out to push the boat aground. Arianne Martell rushes to greet Asha, and Ned moves towards his children.

“Father!” Arya shouts, running to hug him. He catches her with a small grunt, grinning as he wraps his arms around her. Robb comes next, and Theon.

“Where are Jon and Lyanna?” Ned asks once he’s greeted his children. 

“Aunt Lyanna went to King’s Landing to treat with Cassie,” Robb explains. “She sent a letter, saying Cassie would bend the knee. We’re on our way to King’s Landing so Daenerys can accept her oaths of fealty.”

“Truly?” He hadn’t known that, but it doesn’t fully surprise him. Of course Lyanna would want to settle the matter as privately and peacefully as possible, and it seems she was successful.

“That’s what her letter said.”

“And Jon?”

But at that moment, there is a loud screech, and when Ned looks up at the source, he sees three winged shadows soaring overhead.  _ Dragons, _ he realizes a moment before they begin to descend.

He can hear gasps and shouts from the men; glancing back, some fall in shock and fear. When he looks back, he sees a massive black beast skim the water before landing on shore, roaring so loudly that Ned can feel it in his bones. Two other dragons land beside it, one on each side. Astride the black beast is a woman with silver hair, a black gown, and a red cape.

_ Daenerys Targarayen. _

He sinks to his knee, and soon feels all the others doing the same. There are a hundred thousand men gathered behind him, and all of them bend the knee for the dragon queen.

“People of Westeros!” she cries. “I am Daenerys Targaryen. My blood is the blood of Aegon the Conqueror. My blood is the blood of the dragon. It has been many years since I looked upon my homeland, and the Usurper Robert Baratheon took it from me. I have come to claim my birthright. Will you help me take it?”

“Hail Queen Daenerys!” Arianne Martell cries.

_ “Hail!” _ the army shouts, the earth rumbling with their assent. 

The Dothraki ululate, raising curved  _ arakhs _ in the air, and the armies cheer as the dragons roar. Daenerys climbs off of the black dragon, and to Ned’s surprise and delight, he sees Jon climb off of the green. 

_ Jon. _

He is a man grown now, the beard on his face a true beard, his skin kissed by the sun. He wears a tunic and cape, but even beneath these, Ned can tell that he is muscled, no longer a skinny boy. 

He recognizes Ned instantly, making a beeline for him. Ned gets to his feet.

“Jon…”

“Father.” Jon throws his arms around Ned, and when Ned embraces him, he swallows the urge to weep. 

“I have thought about you every day,” he says instead, caressing Jon’s head.

“And I, you.” Jon pulls back to look at him, concern in his eyes. “May I...still call you my father?”

Ned blows out a breath. “I hope that you will always call me your father.”

Jon beams and steps back, hand on Ned’s shoulder. “Your Grace,” he says to Daenerys, who is standing nearby, hands clasped before her. She comes forward when Jon calls, smiling politely. “This is my father...Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell and Warden of the North.”

Ned sinks to his knee again. “The North is yours, Your Grace.”

“Rise, Lord Stark.”

He does, kissing her hand. “Thank you, Your Grace, for bringing my son back to me.”

“It is I who should be thanking you,” she says sweetly. “Jon is a brother to me, and that makes his family mine.” She surprises Ned by standing on her toes to kiss his cheek. “Will you make the introductions?”

“I would be honored, Your Grace.” 

Daenerys takes his arm, and he leads her down the row of lords and ladies, introducing each of them to her. Everyone kneels and kisses her hand, and Ned privately thinks she made a smart choice by wearing gloves. 

When he gets to the Dornish lords, he lets Oberyn Martell take over, lingering behind with Jon. They don’t speak, but Ned knows they’ll have plenty of time for catching up later.

“...and this is the army from Starfall, the bannermen of Lord Edric Dayne, who you have already met.”

A woman comes forward and kneels. “Your Grace, it is an honor to meet you...and an honor to look upon Jon Snow and Ned Stark once more.”

Ned looks at the woman, and it takes him only a moment to recognize her.

“Wylla?”

She smiles as she gets to her feet. She looks happier now than she did then...but then again, there was no joy to be found in that ill named tower.

“Well met, Lord Stark.”

Ned glances at Jon, who is politely puzzled. “Jon, you wouldn’t remember Wylla, but she was…”

“I was there when you were born,” Wylla says kindly. “Prince Rhaegar chose me to attend Queen Lyanna; I pulled you from her womb myself.”

Jon blows out a breath. “Well met, my lady.”

“I am no lady. Just a wetnurse.”

“Wylla!”

Edric Dayne comes trotting forward, embracing Wylla like an old friend. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see the Starks again,” she says, smiling. “And your aunt Allyria wanted me to give you this.” She steps back, turning to a squire; he hands her a magnificent sheath carved in minute detail, embedded with gems and pearls. The hilt is silvery white and shaped like a star.

Ned’s stomach turns. He knows that sword.

Wylla kneels before Edric. “Starfall was built over a fallen star. The heart of that star was forged into a greatsword named Dawn. Unlike other greatswords, Dawn is not passed from lord to heir, but is given to a knight of House Dayne worthy of it. The last Sword of the Morning was your uncle, Ser Arthur Dayne. Edric, you are the Lord of Starfall, and you have sworn to lead Starfall out of the Long Night. You are the Sword of the Morning.”

Edric’s face is full of emotion as he grasps Dawn by the hilt and pulls it free of its sheath. When he raises it aloft, the pale white blade gleaming in the sunlight, the men of Starfall cheer for the Sword of the Morning.

.

Once all of the Unsullied and Dothraki have come ashore and made camp, and once the queen has settled in for the night, Jon comes to share a horn of ale with Ned. 

The two men talk for hours, telling each other of all that has transpired since the last time they saw each other. Ned listens with rapt attention as Jon tells him about Essos and Slaver’s Bay, and Jon is no less attentive when Ned tells him about his ventures beyond the Wall.

“So they have a leader?”

“It would seem so.” Ned sips his ale, remembering the icy blue eyes of the creature he’d fought. “He seemed almost...human. Alive in a way that the wights were not. And at the same time, he was death itself.”

Jon considers this. “Old Nan used to tell stories about the wildlings. She said they would lie with the Others and birth half-human children.”

“I doubt that’s true,” Ned says wryly. “All the wildlings I met wanted to get as far away from the Others as possible.”

“What do you think they want? What purpose does it serve, killing us and moving south?”

“I don’t know,” Ned admits. “Maybe that’s all they want; to kill us and move south. They are said to come from the Land of Always Winter; perhaps they are tired of living there, and want to live elsewhere. The First Men and the Andals were no different. Even the Targaryens took land that did not belong to them and made it theirs. Why should the Others be any different?”

Jon considers this. 

“It doesn’t matter one way or the other,” Ned continues. “They will show us no mercy. There will be no survivors in this war, and for that, we cannot allow them to cross the Wall.”

“They will not,” Jon says stoutly. “Once Cassie has bent the knee, we’ll have over three hundred thousand men. That’s the biggest army Westeros has ever seen.”

“It is,” Ned agrees. “But the Army of the Dead...they’re not like any other army, Jon. They are fast and agile, and they have no fear of death, so they lack a living man’s caution. Hundreds will fall in the first hour of battle.”

Jon’s face pales. “We have dragons.”

“We do,” Ned agrees. 

“And Dany has ordered smiths to mine and forge dragonglass from Dragonstone. Swords, knives, arrowheads.”

“Let us hope they can mine enough.” When he sees Jon’s face, he sighs. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t want to hear such dark words so soon after coming home.”

“No, it’s alright. I...understand the severity of the situation. It’s hard to hear, but it must be. This is the greatest threat any of us will ever know in our lifetimes.”

“That is so,” Ned agrees. 

Jon hesitates. “Are you worried? About my mother?”

“Because she’s in King’s Landing? No. Stannis is a good man, and your sister would not turn on her own mother. I think she is safe. She was the prisoner of wildlings, you know. I think she can handle Stannis and Renly.”

“It’s only...it seems almost too easy. She goes to King’s Landing and they immediately offer to hand it over to Dany?”

“Not even the most foolish of men would think the Crown’s forces stand a chance against this army.” He puts a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “I think you have faced so many hardships that you cannot trust an easy victory.”

Jon sighs. “I think you may be right.”

“You have a soldier’s instincts, always preparing for a trap. It’s not a bad thing. It means you serve your queen well.”

“I hope you are right.” 

Ned squeezes his shoulder again. “Drink another horn of ale and rest easy. You and Daenerys are safe tonight.”

Jon rises, leaning down to hug his father. “I’ve missed you, Father.”

“I’ve missed you, Jon. More than you know.”


	87. ROBB II

The march across the Crownlands is slow and uneventful. Most of the homes and villages they pass are empty, the great keeps and lowly farms left undefended. Even so, Daenerys orders the men to take only what they must to feed themselves and nothing more.

“These are my people, and I will not have my armies starve them,” she had declared.

She is gentle and just, and Robb is not the only one to see it. By day, she makes a point of riding with the captains to get to know them better, and by night, she visits different cookfires, breaking bread and sharing horns of ale with them. She listens attentively to their stories, even the ones Robb is sure she has no interest in hearing, and sometimes she shares tales of her own. She has seen and done more than most men have in a lifetime, and their respect for her becomes clear. They had already supported her claim, they had already found her beautiful, but now they know she is more than just a pretty face with a claim to the throne. She is Aegon the Conqueror reborn, and she will take what is hers with fire and blood.

The night before they reach King’s Landing, she joins the Starks and the Brotherhood without Banners at their fire. She insists she is content on the stump she uses for a seat, but even so, Theon and Anguy outdo themselves finding furs to cushion and warm her. 

“The Starks of Winterfell, the Brotherhood without Banners, and the Sword of the Morning,” she notes once she’s been settled. “An unlikely bunch.”

“You, more than anyone, should know about unlikely companions, Your Grace,” Beric jokes.

She laughs at that. “You have me there, my lord. Still, it is strange to me that so many men of noble birth are part of this brotherhood.”

“No one chooses their birth, my queen,” Thoros tells her. “But any man can choose his brothers.”

Daenerys smiles at Jon. “I have found that to be true.”

“And we will all of us need our brothers in the war to come.”

The other men murmur in agreement.

“When the snows fall and the white wind blows,” Father begins, “the lone wolf dies--”

“--but the pack survives,” Robb, Jon, Arya, and Theon say as one. They’ve heard it too many times to not know it by now.

“Is this a common saying, in the North?” Daenerys asks politely.

“It is in Winterfell,” Father tells her. “My father used to say it, and his father before him. Winter is Coming, Your Grace, and we must all of us have our brothers close by when it does.”

“And our sisters,” Arya objects.

Father smiles. “And our sisters,” he grants.

The men are on their best behavior around the queen, but even so, a ribald jest slips here and there. Daenerys only laughs, clearly unfazed by the men being, well, men. Robb imagines she’s heard just as bad, if not worse, around her own men, even if she is their queen. 

“Your Grace,” Anguy asks after a few horns of ale, his tongue looser than it ought to be, “is it true that Dothraki lie with their horses?”

“Not true,” she dismisses, tactfully ignoring Lem as he claps Anguy upside the head. “Though they use horses for nearly everything else. Clothes, food, shelter, even weapons. Once a horse cannot be ridden, it is slaughtered, and no part of the beast goes to waste. In this way, the horses sustain them in life and death, and that is why they are so sacred to the Dothraki. So no, they would never lie with their horses.” Her lips twitch. “Though, that being said, some Dothraki men certainly  _ resemble _ their horses in some respects, so the mistake is easily made.”

Robb chokes on his ale, and a moment later, the men are guffawing at the queen’s jest. She grins into her own horn of ale, and Robb cannot help but sense that she is pleased with herself. 

_ She wants to be liked, _ he thinks with a twinge of sadness.  _ She spent her childhood begging for shelter, and even with dragons and the world’s biggest army at her back, she cannot shake that need to be welcomed somewhere. _

She stays with them for a while, trading jests and stories. Tom plays his courtliest songs for her, and all of the men ensure her horn is never empty. They pass a pleasant hour or so, and when she smiles at Robb, cheeks flushed from the fire and purple eyes sparkling, he has to stifle the mad urge to kiss her. 

_ She is my queen, however she jests and laughs with us, _ he scolds himself.  _ Tomorrow she’ll accept my cousin’s surrender, and when she takes her place upon the Iron Throne, I’ll march off to a war I may never return from. _

_ So why not? _ says another voice in his head.  _ Why not kiss her? It may be the last kiss you ever have. _

_ No,  _ he tells the voice.  _ She is more than just my queen. She conquered nations and freed slaves. She hatched the first dragons in over a hundred years from her husband’s funeral pyre, and she is the Prince that was Promised. She will lead us out of the Long Night. What are you? Just a green boy near the end of his life. _

Father shakes him from his musings by standing up. At his feet, Ghost looks up, tail thumping the ground, before he also stands up and stretches.

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” Father says kindly, “but I am no longer a young man, and I am weary from the day’s ride. Pray excuse me.”

“But of course.” She also stands up, and the group rises with her. “I’ve been so thoughtless; I’m sure you are all weary from the day’s ride.”

The men hastily assure her they are not, but she smiles and says, “I need my rest, in any case. Jon, will you see me back to my tent?”

“Of course.” 

She takes Jon’s arm, threading her way through the camp with him. Robb watches them go long after he’s taken his seat again. When they’re out of sight, his eyes drop back to the fire, and he realizes that the others are watching him and smirking.

“What?” he asks defensively.

_ “What?” _ Arya mocks. 

“You’ve been staring at the queen all night,” Theon informs him with an insufferable look on his face. 

“So?”

“So, she was staring back,” Tom tells him. “Why do you think I was playing love songs all night? You’re welcome, by the way.”

Robb flushes as he realizes that everyone was watching him watch Daenerys...and that they all think she was watching him right back. “She was being polite.”

“Oh? If she was being so polite, then how come she didn’t look at me once?” Jack-Be-Lucky challenges.

“Because there are piles of shit that are nicer to look at than you.”

“She  _ was _ looking at you more than anyone else,” Edric says. 

Robb shakes his head. “Even if she was, what does it matter? Nothing’s going to happen.”

Everyone groans.

“What?”

“Daenerys would  _ like _ for something to happen,” Anguy says helpfully. 

“How do you know that?”

Everyone groans again.

“Maybe if you’re that stupid, you don’t deserve her,” Arya huffs. 

Robb scowls. “Maybe you ought to go to bed,  _ little sister. _ ”

“And  _ you _ ought to go to Daenerys’s, before she finds one of those big Dothraki men she was talking about.”

The Brotherhood hoot with laughter; Robb flushes as Arya smirks at him. 

“Fine,” he huffs at last, and the Brotherhood cheer. “But don’t you dare ask about it tomorrow. Stay, Grey Wind.”

Theon slaps his ass as he stands up, cheering him on with the others as he leaves. 

.

Robb paces up and down before Daenerys’s tent for a long moment, trying to build up the courage to march into her tent and sweep her off her feet. 

She wants him to, doesn’t she? That’s what everyone said. Even Arya, who’s a young girl and innocent in the ways of love. 

(Or so he hopes. Gendry  _ has _ been staring at her an awful lot lately…)

No, surely they couldn’t all be wrong. Surely Daenerys wants him as much as he wants her. And at the very least, what harm can it do? He can name it an honest mistake, and have the humbleness to laugh about if it is. 

He’s going to go in there. He is. 

Turning resolutely to the Unsullied guarding her tent, he says, “I’d like to speak with the queen.”

One of the Unsullied ducks under the flap; when he returns a moment later, he holds the flap open, nodding for Robb to enter.

Robb strides inside, determined to kiss Daenerys where she stands and tell her she is the most beautiful woman he’s ever beheld. 

He stumbles to a halt, however, when he sees her sitting at her table, wiping tears from her eyes.

“My queen?” he asks with some concern.

She forces a smile at him, her eyes red. “Forgive me. I was not expecting visitors.”

“It is I who must be forgiven, for intruding on you like this,” he apologizes, feeling foolish. “I can leave--”

“No, please.” She gestures for him to sit in the chair beside hers. “I would welcome a distraction.”

He sits gingerly, watching her. “May I know the cause of your distress?”

She smiles again, using her sleeve to wipe away the excess tears. “It’s folly.”

“Not if it brings tears to your eyes.”

She takes a deep breath. “Everything that has happened these last few weeks...it seems unreal. From landing on Dragonstone to landing on the continent proper to marching for King’s Landing...and now the march is almost over. If all goes well, I’ll find myself on the Iron Throne tomorrow. I’ve dreamt of this moment for  _ years. _ And now it’s finally happening. I suppose I became overwhelmed at the thought.”

“Anyone would,” he says gently. “You’ve overcome so much to be here.”

“I have,” she agrees. “I think that’s why it makes me as emotional as it does. When my stomach ached from hunger and my feet chafed from wandering the streets barefoot because we could not afford shoes, my brother used to tell me stories about King’s Landing and the Red Keep. Each time I hungered, each time I wept, each time I shivered in a dirty alley for lack of a bed, he would tell me these stories, and promise me that when we returned as king and queen, we would never hunger and never weep and only sleep in the softest of feather beds. Even when I knew it was impossible, I dreamt of the Red Keep. It was the only thing that kept me going, that forced me to put one foot in front of the other when I only felt like lying down and giving up.” Her smile is sad. “It has not been an easy path here. I have lost many who were dear to me. Sitting the Iron Throne will finally feel as if I did right by them. If I can take the throne, if I can be named the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, their deaths will not have been in vain. My father, my mother, Elia Martell and her children, my brothers and my son, my husband...their deaths will not have been wasted on a foolish girl who reached too high.”

Robb gapes at her. “My queen...you have  _ never _ been a foolish girl who reached too high.”

She gives him a small smile. “You didn’t know me before.”

“Perhaps not,” he admits. “But I know you now, and I know that you had a dream, and you didn’t let it stay a dream; you made it happen. Not many people can say that. You did whatever it took to get here, to Westeros and the Iron Throne, and you did it without hardening your heart.”

She lets out a small laugh. “You truly don’t know me, if you think my heart has not hardened.”

“I don’t think it has,” he protests.”At every turn, you were given a choice, and every choice you made was to help people, not hurt them. You could have fled the  _ khalasar _ when your husband fell from his horse, but you chose to stay and save his life even if it meant risking your own. You saw your people across the Red Waste, you could have sold your dragons for a slave army, but you freed them and every slave in Slaver’s Bay even if it meant delaying your return to Westeros. You could have bowed to the masters or abandoned the great cities, but you didn’t. You fought for freedom, and freedom shall reign long after you’re gone.”

She looks at him with soft eyes. “Is that truly what you think?”

“Yes. I supported your claim long before I met you, but I will fight for you because you’re not just a good queen; you’re a good person.”

Her face is full of emotion again, and he’s almost afraid she’s going to cry. Instead, she smiles. “Thank you, Lord Robb. That...means a great deal to me.”

He bows his head. “I am glad to hear it.” 

She clears her throat. “So, what did you want to see me about?”

He flushes, feeling foolish. “It’s nothing. Truly. It...seems trivial now.”

“What is it?” she persists, not unkindly. “It cannot be that trivial if it brought you here at such a late hour.”

Gods, he really is a fool. “I assure you, it is,” he insists, getting to his feet. “Rest well, Your Grace.” He makes for the entrance to her tent, but Daenerys calls after him.

“Robb!”

When he turns to face her, she comes blazing at him; he barely has time to react before she’s sliding her arms around his neck, kissing him. 

He kisses back without hesitation, his arms wrapping around her waist and pulling her against him. She’s soft and warm in his arms, and when she deepens the kiss, he can feel himself stiffening against her. 

Daenerys tugs him back to her bed, their fingers working nimbly at the other’s laces and buckles. Beneath the stiff black material of her dress, he finds red silk, and beneath that, soft and supple skin. 

They fall back on her bed--maybe he pushed, maybe she pulled--and then his body is hovering over hers, both of them breathing hard as his center brushes hers. 

“Are you--”

“I’m sure,” she says breathlessly. Then, firmer, “Don’t stop.”

And who is he to deny his queen?


	88. BENJEN VI

Benjen stares at the Others.

The Others stare back.

It’s been this way for weeks now. The living stare at the dead and the dead stare back.

_ What sort of maester’s riddle is this? _ he thinks disdainfully, staring down at the dead fucks.

They just stare back.

Day after day, they’d waited for the Others to do... _ something _ . Anything. To move, or shriek, or attack. Hells, even pick their noses. But they just stare with the calm, unblinking patience of those who are dead and have an eternity of nothing better to do. 

_ But why? _ he cannot help wondering. Every day he becomes surer and surer that this is part of their plan, but every day, Jaime becomes even  _ less _ sure that they have a plan.

“They’ve waited far too long,” he insists. “Maybe they really are just that stupid.”

“No one is that stupid. Not even dead men,” Benjen protests. “The white walkers aren’t men, anyhow, they’re something else entirely, and they wouldn’t gather in front of the Wall only to stare up at us in surprise.”

“The Wall wasn’t there last time they left the Land of Always Winter,” Jaime points out. “Maybe it truly is a surprise to them.”

“No. They knew it was here now. They had to have known.”

Now, Benjen wonders if perhaps Jaime was right. Not that he’ll ever admit it to the other man, but really...why else would the Others stand there for  _ weeks _ ?

_ But if they hadn’t known the Wall was here, wouldn’t they have tried to breach it by now? Wouldn’t they have launched an attack? No, they know they can’t cross the Wall, and that’s why they sit there and stare. They’re waiting for something, even if I don’t know what it is. _

“Brother Benjen,” comes an annoyingly eager voice. 

“Brother Lommy,” he says curtly, tearing his gaze from the Army of the Dead.

The lad’s pale yellow curls stick out from beneath his black cap, jammed down over his ears to keep them warm. “Maester Aemon sent for you.”

“Thank you, Lommy.”

The old man has not been faring well as of late. That is only to be expected; he is over a hundred years old, and the chill of winter has settled into his frail old bones. Even if the wights don’t get him, winter surely will.

Benjen takes the lift down to Castle Black proper; when the doors open, a flurry of snow swirls around his feet before settling on the ground again. It’s been snowing more as of late, and he wakes to a white mist more mornings than not. It’s always cold here at the Wall, but the misty mornings are colder than the others.

He makes his way to the maester’s rooms; as soon as Clydas opens the door, a wall of warmth hits Benjen in the face. 

“He’s been asking for you,” Clydas murmurs, stepping aside to let him in. Benjen tugs off his cloak, overwarm before the roaring fire. Clydas takes the cloak, a light sheen of sweat on his face. “I know it’s hot; he gets so cold even when the fire’s burning brightest. The Lord Commander said Maester Aemon has been here longer than most of us have been alive and has served the Watch better than most rangers, so we can spare the firewood.”

_ The old bear is softer than he looks, _ Benjen thinks wryly. But he can hardly blame Mormont; he’s right that the old maester has been here longer than anyone, and that he’s served the Watch well. They can spare the wood.

Clydas leads Benjen into the maester’s bedchamber. Few men have ever been inside, but as the maester is too frail to leave his bed, visitors must needs come to him. Benjen begins to sweat beneath his clothes, but he tells himself it’s better than freezing to death.

“Maester?” Clydas says softly. “Benjen Stark is here to see you.”

“Benjen?” Maester Aemon shifts in his bed, a pale white thing drowning in a sea of furs. 

Benjen kneels beside the bed, taking the maester’s frail hand in both of his. It’s cold and clammy, and Benjen tries to squeeze some warmth into it. “I’m here, maester.”

“I will not survive the night,” the maester whispers.

Benjen’s heart sinks. “You don’t know that.”

The old man smiles at him. “I know a great many things, Benjen Stark. More, perhaps, than any man in the Night’s Watch. I can feel death creeping ever closer. After these many years, it is a welcome guest. I have watched my whole family disappear until all that was left were strangers. I have watched men take their oaths and die defending them, and I have watched their sons and nephews and grandsons take their place. It is time I die, Benjen Stark. But it is not your time. Not yet.” He reaches over with his other hand, clasping Benjen’s. “Find Samwell Tarly. He has read every book at Castle Black, all the way back to the founding of the Night’s Watch. You have the tools; now wield them.”

Benjen furrows his brow. “What…?”

But Maester Aemon sinks back against the bed, limp with exhaustion. “Egg…”

Clydas reaches out from the shadows, ushering Benjen out of the room.

“What does he mean by ‘egg’?” Benjen asks. “What egg?”

“He’s been saying it over and over. We think it means  _ Aegon, _ for his younger brother.” Clydas shrugs. “It’s only a guess, though.”

“Where can I find Samwell Tarly?”

Clydas snorts. “In the library. He’s always in there these days, reading. He comes to check on the maester from time to time, but there isn’t much anyone can do at this point.”

“Aye, that’s true.” Benjen takes his cloak, settling it over his shoulders. “Will you give him something?”

“Anymore milk of the poppy and he’ll die.”

“That may not be such a bad thing,” Benjen says gently. 

Clydas’s shoulders sag. “Perhaps you’re right.”

Benjen clasps his shoulder. “You’re a good man, Clydas.”

Clydas shakes his head. “I’m here to take care of the maester, but in truth, he’s been caring for me since I came here, more than my own family ever did. I never shed a tear when they passed, but with Maester Aemon…”

Benjen feels a pang of sympathy. “We will all miss him.”  _ If we outlive him. _

Clydas smiles sadly and sees him out. The cold is almost welcome after the sweltering heat of Maester Aemon’s chambers; Benjen breathes easy, tightening the clasps of his cloak as the cold air swirls around him. He makes his way down the walkways to the yard, where he can see men pouring in through the gate. 

_ At last. _

Benjen had sent rangers up and down the length of the Wall, checking in with the other castles. None of them had noticed anything, which means the Army of the Dead is gathered at Castle Black and Castle Black alone. Benjen doesn’t know if this is a good thing or not. He’s decided to take it as a good thing; if the army is concentrated in one place, that makes it easier to attack them, doesn’t it?

They’ve summoned every man each castle can spare, leaving behind skeleton crews to man the Wall while the brunt of their forces make for Castle Black. They have no plans to attack the Army of the Dead, not yet, but at least they can be prepared for when it happens. 

If it happens.

He comes to stand beside Lord Commander Mormont, who’s watching the brothers in black and wildlings in patchy furs fill the yard. 

“It’s not enough,” Mormont says bluntly.

“No,” Benjen agrees. “But it’s what we have.”

Mormont snorts. “What we have won’t cut it if the Army of the Dead decides to attack.”

“We have the Wall. Surely that counts for something.”

“Something,” Mormont grunts. “I don’t like them just...standing there. Watching. Waiting. They know something we don’t. The white walkers have been around since the children of the forest who built this wall. They may know more about it than we do.”

“They may, or they may not. They were driven back to the Land of Always Winter when the children helped Bran the Builder erect the Wall.”

“True,” Mormont allows. “But whatever magic the children used...we don’t have it anymore. We don’t even have children of the forest anymore.”

He has a point there. Whatever magic the children had used to protect the Wall, the white walkers likely understand it better than anyone now living. What if they’re waiting for something that will undo the enchantments, or give them a way around them? Some alignment of the stars, or a blood moon, or some ancient prophecy about to be fulfilled? The Wall was built eight thousand years ago, and though thousands of generations of men have lived and died in that time, the white walkers standing outside the Wall are likely the same white walkers that marched eight thousand years ago. 

That’s the part that terrifies Benjen most. The Last Hero and the children drove the white walkers back, but they didn’t destroy them. What if they only drive the white walkers back this time, too? What if they come back in another eight thousand years? The Night’s Watch has sworn to protect the realms of men, but how can they do that if they’re only delaying the inevitable? What if when the white walkers return in another eight thousand years, they return even stronger and smarter than before?

Now, Benjen clears his throat. “Maester Aemon desires I speak with Samwell Tarly.”

Mormont snorts again. “Tarly. That boy has no business being a man of the Night’s Watch, but in many ways, we are fortunate to have him.” His voice softens. “How is the maester?”

“Not well.” Benjen sees no point in sugarcoating it. “He says this is his last day.”

“Then I suppose I should say farewell.” Mormont shakes his head. “He was an old man when I came here over twenty years ago, and each year I thought would be his last. Now that it’s happening, it doesn’t seem real.” He grips Benjen’s shoulder. “Best see to Tarly.”

“Aye.” 

The two men part ways; Mormont up to Aemon’s tower, and Benjen down to the library.

.

The library of Castle Black is located underground. It’s cool and dry below the ground, good for storing old books and parchment. 

Benjen finds Samwell Tarly at one of the tables there, poring over a tome that looks as old as the Wall itself. 

“Brother Tarly.”

“Brother Stark.” Samwell rubs his eyes. 

“How long has it been since you slept, lad?”

“I’m not sure,” Samwell admits. “But I’m not tired, I promise; it’s only dry and dusty down here.”

That it is, and Benjen’s sure that staring at fading ink by candlelight only makes it worse. He takes a seat across from Samwell. “Maester Aemon told me I should find you.”

That makes the boy’s eyes widen. “Maester Aemon?”

“He said you’ve read every book at Castle Black.”

“Not every book,” Samwell says at once. “But...almost every book.”

“Near enough that it makes no difference. The maester believes you can help us defeat the Army of the Dead.”

Samwell flushes. “I don’t know about that.”

Benjen shifts in his seat. “You’ve read about the Wall. About how it was built, yes?”

“Yes,” Samwell agrees. “Well...what little there was written about it.”

That troubles Benjen. “What was written about it?”

“Only that it was built by Bran the Builder with the help of the children of the forest, and that the children barred it with enchantments so that the white walkers couldn’t cross it.”

“The white walkers,” Benjen agrees. “But what about the wights? We’ve seen dead men pass through before. We have one in the ice cells.”

“See, it’s a bit tricky, when you get into all that,” Samwell admits. “Because the wights  _ technically _ passed through the Wall, but what if they can’t go any farther? What if the enchantments only work on the white walkers?”

“What if there are no enchantments at all?” Benjen asks gruffly.

“That’s a possibility,” Samwell admits. “Stories have a way of becoming...embellished over time. But even if there is no magic, you have to admit, the Wall is...very difficult to get past. We have a few reports of wildlings climbing over the Wall, but it’s dangerous, and takes more skill and coordination than I imagine the Army of the Dead has. Their best bet would be to infiltrate the castle itself.”

“So why haven’t they done that yet?”

“I’m not sure,” Sam admits. “They seem to be waiting for something.”

“Do you think they have that kind of...intelligence?”

Samwell bobs his head. “Oh, I think so. This attack they’re launching...it isn’t random. They’re not just standing outside because they have nothing better to do. The white walkers know something. Even if it’s just been from hanging back and observing, they know something about the Wall and the way it works. But I think it may be more than that.” He shifts excitedly in his seat. “When Jafer Flowers attacked Lord Commander Mormont, it seemed...targeted. Too determined to be random.”

“You think Jafer meant to kill the Lord Commander?” Benjen asks in surprise.

“He passed a dozen other rooms before he got to the Lord Commander’s. Why would he do that if he was truly just a mindless beast?”

Benjen sits back, troubled at the thought that Jafer had meant to kill the Lord Commander the whole time. He wasn’t just a senseless beast, he’d known who the Lord Commander was and what killing him would do to the Watch.

“Then again,” Samwell adds, “perhaps the wights are just mindless beasts, and the white walkers use them as pawns. Perhaps when a man dies, his memories go to the white walkers. Maybe they can see things we can’t.”

Benjen doesn’t know if that’s better or worse. “So the white walkers sent Jafer to kill the Lord Commander?”

“I think so. The Old Bear has held the Wall for years; they must have known, somehow, that killing him would mean having a different Lord Commander voted in his place, and a new Lord Commander may be more...lax. Not as attentive to guarding the Wall.”

“Easier to get past,” Benjen realizes.

Samwell nods. “Exactly.”

Benjen rubs his jaw. “I must admit, Tarly...this is troubling.”

“Oh, I know,” Samwell says fervently. 

“Then how do we defeat them with what we have?”

“Well...we don’t,” Samwell admits. “All we can really do is hold them back. I suppose we could launch trebuchets of flaming grass and twine down onto them, but I feel...I don’t know. Surely the white walkers would have thought of that?”

Surely they would have, but what does Benjen know?

“What do you think they want? Besides killing us all and taking over the world?”

Samwell takes a moment to put his thoughts together. “I’m sure the children of the forest wondered the same thing when the First Men came to their shores. Who were these horrible creatures, cutting down their trees and killing them and taking their land? And later I’m sure the First Men wondered the same thing of the Andals. Who were these horrible men killing them and taking their land? I think that the Others are just another conqueror, and their reasons are as good as any others’. The children of the forest are all gone now. Perhaps soon the First Men and the Andals will be gone, too.”

The thought is a chilling one, but it has a logic that none of Old Nan’s stories ever had. Perhaps they really are just conquerors, tired of their own land or unable to live there, so they’ve come south to take a new land.

_ Perhaps this is our punishment for killing the children of the forest, _ Benjen thinks grimly.  _ We killed them, now the white walkers will kill us. _

“So what do you think we should do?”

“Honestly?” Samwell hesitates. “I think we should wait. It won’t take Daenerys long to conquer the south, what with her armies and her dragons. Now, it’s only a matter of Cassana Baratheon bending the knee, and bringing the Lannisters to heel. Once Daenerys has done that, she can fly her dragons and march her armies north. Gods be good, the Army of the Dead won’t have attacked by then.”

“And if they do?”

Samwell swallows. “Well...let us hope there  _ is _ magic in the Wall.”


	89. JON XXIV

They reach King’s Landing at midday.

Jon rides a little behind Father, who leads the column. They had decided it was best if he kept himself hidden, at least until Cassie bends the knee. It stings him more than he’d care to admit, but he understands the reasoning for it. He is Lyanna Stark’s firstborn, and the child for whom she’d risked everything. No matter how much she loves Cassie, she’d helped Jon put Dany on Cassie’s throne, and his younger sister may never forgive him that. He certainly doesn’t expect her to think of him charitably now.

Dany rides Drogon, both to impress the people of King’s Landing and to remind them that she is Aegon’s blood...and if anyone has thoughts of rejecting Dany and restoring Cassie to the throne, they’ll think twice. 

Jon cannot stop thinking about his little sister now. They had never been truly close, but they had been cousins and they had loved each other for that. Is there any love left? Or did it turn to ash the moment Cassie realized the truth? 

The spires of the Red Keep loom above the horizon before long, and Jon feels a knot in his belly. The city seems eerily silent and still; is everyone watching and waiting? Are they crammed in their houses, peering out the windows at the dragon queen and her armies? 

As they draw nearer, the north gate opens, and hundreds of soldiers march out the gates. Jon watches them form up outside the walls, leaving the gate clear. A display of power, perhaps? A threat? 

_ A trap? _

The bells ring, and as one, the Baratheon soldiers throw down their swords. Jon relaxes, looking up at the sky. Dany and Drogon are flying low enough that he knows she can see the surrender, but she waits for the Targaryen army to file through the gate before she sends Drogon wheeling over the city. 

The black shadow passes over rooftops, and curious faces peer out of the windows. The city is quiet and still, save for the slow pealing of the bells.

“Why is it so quiet?” Arya wants to know. “I thought people would be cheering.”

“They will cheer when they know there is no danger,” Father explains. “Right now, all they see is an army riding through the city and a dragon making for the Red Keep. They do not know who will be queen at the end of the day. Until then, they must hold back their cheers.”

Drogon lands in the outer yard just as the head of the army files in through the gate. The keep’s household, or most of it, is gathered outside; they watch the dragon with wide eyes. One woman breaks free, and Jon recognizes his mother. She kneels before Dany as the queen alights from Drogon, and the household does the same.

“Your Grace,” she greets. “My daughter awaits you in the throne room.”

The lords, ladies, and captains dismount, following Dany inside. Jon goes, too, holding his head high...but when Arya squeezes his hand, he cannot help squeezing back in thanks. His stomach is a knot, and he desperately wishes they could get this over already.

Attendants open the doors to the throne room, and Dany leads the way inside. Lords and ladies fill the galley, and they all watch as Dany passes them by.

There, at the far end of the room, is the Iron Throne. It’s a massive thing, and almost grotesque. It’s supposed to be made of a thousand swords. Jon remembers a story of a king who died in that throne. Some say he was murdered by a wife or a man he had wronged, and others say he killed himself, but others still say it was the throne itself that killed him. 

Cassie is sitting on it now, but the only reason Jon knows it’s her is because it couldn’t be anyone else. She’s unrecognizable from the child he last saw in the summer, before everything changed. She was small and merry then. Now, she is a woman with a grave face. She wears a gown of white and gold samite, her hair bound loosely over one shoulder. On her head is her father’s crown, Rhaegar’s red rubies and black gemstones set amongst golden antlers. 

_ Robert’s prize, _ Jon thinks grimly. 

When Dany stands before the throne, Cassie gets out of it, kneeling on the ground and setting her crown before her. 

“Queen Daenerys,” she says, her voice ringing through the throne room. “I, Cassana of the House Baratheon, first of my name, yield unto you my father’s crown, your ancestor’s throne, and the Seven Kingdoms. From this day to my last day, I am your servant. I swear it by the old gods and new.”

“Rise, Cassana of the House Baratheon.”

Cassie does, her eyes flitting to where Mother is standing off to the side before she looks back at Dany. The dragon queen smiles, kissing Cassie’s cheek and murmuring something that only the other woman can hear. Whatever it is makes Cassie’s shoulders droop in relief. She descends the steps, coming to stand beside a bald courtier with a stern face. 

Dany turns to the room, sitting slowly, almost cautiously, on the throne. When she has rested fully, her hands on the pommels that serve as arms, Mother comes forward, holding a new crown over her head. This one is silver set with rubies, just as Aegon the Conqueror’s was said to have looked. 

“In the fiery light of R’hllor, I now pronounce Daenerys of the House Targaryen,  the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, Lady of Dragonstone, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons.” She sets the crown on Dany’s head. “Long may she reign!”

“ _ Long may she reign! _ ” the room echoes, sinking to their knees.

Even as he bows, Jon looks up at his aunt. She’s already looking at him, smiling.

_ You’re here, _ he tries to tell her with his eyes.  _ A lifetime later, you’re here. _

He thinks she understands.

.

The bells ring from midday to midnight, announcing the coronation of a new queen. There is music and dancing in the streets, and in the Red Keep, every man and woman of noble birth swears allegiance to Dany. While servants exchange the Baratheon stag for the Targaryen dragon, lords and ladies from all across the Seven Kingdoms bend the knee. Dany accepts their oaths of fealty, blessing them for their loyalty and wishing them comfort and safety in the coming winter.

In the evening, after everyone has sworn fealty, offices and titles have changed hands, and the Red Keep is fully restored to its Targaryen glory, the kitchens whip up a feast. Beneath black and red banners, Dany sits at the high table, smiling down at her subjects as they raise toast after toast to her health and happiness.

Jorah tastes all of her food before it is brought to her, and only Dany’s handmaids pour her wine. It had been Jorah’s idea, to ensure that no one would poison the queen. Jon appreciates his caution; if anyone was going to poison Dany, this would be the time to do it.

Cassie has a place of honor at the high table; a dignified start to her descent from royalty. She sits beside Mother, and Arya sits on her other wide. Stoic as Cassie is, she loosens up a little beside her cousin, talking here and there and even cracking a smile once or twice. 

Jon watches from the shadows, where he protects his queen by patrolling the hall. He wants to avoid Cassie, but once or twice her gaze flickers to him and hardens. He supposes he deserves that. She’s lost her throne to his kinswoman, and their mother helped him do it. It’ll be a wonder if Cassie ever forgives him.

It’s after the third hard gaze that he decides to leave the hall for a bit. He murmurs a word in Aggo’s ear and then proceeds out of the feast hall.

His feet carry him to the throne room before he realizes it. It’s empty now, the only light coming from braziers that have burned down nearly to embers. 

Despite the grandeur and victory from earlier, Jon feels unsettled in the room now. Perhaps it’s because it’s so empty. Perhaps it’s because of the chair made from a thousand swords. Perhaps it’s because of how many men died in here--including both his grandfathers and his uncle. 

“It’s ugly, isn’t it?”

He turns at the sound of the voice, and is surprised to see Cassie at the top of the steps. The room echoes faintly with the sound of her slippers as she comes fully into the room.

“I don’t suppose it was meant to be pretty,” he says at last.

“True,” she allows. “It was supposed to be imposing. But you can see my father didn’t buy into all that. Hence all the vines and flowers.” She waves her hand, indicating the decorative vines curling around the pillars. “A promise of peace and plenty after the tyrannical reign of the vile Targaryens. Or something like that.” She comes to a stop beside Jon, staring at the throne. “He never liked sitting in it. He always left that to Jon Arryn. Uncle Stannis said he found it uncomfortable, but Uncle Renly says that after a while, he got too fat to sit in it.”

“I suppose that would make it uncomfortable.”

Something almost like a smile flits across her face. “I suppose.” The smile disappears as quickly as it appeared. “He wasn’t a very good king, I think. Jon Arryn was a good Hand, and he had the small council, but I think people just thought he was a good king because he wasn’t a tyrant. It takes a lot more than that to be a good ruler.”

Jon doesn’t know what to say to that, or if he should say anything at all. He just watches her and waits.

“I tried so hard to be a good ruler,” she continues, taking his silence as encouragement. “I sat in the throne even when I didn’t want to, and I listened to people and offered them my sympathies and my blessings and what little I could offer. Even so, my uncles had to do most of the work for me. They had more experience.” She’s quiet for a moment. “It didn’t matter, though. My reign was never meant to be.”

Jon feels a pang of guilt. “Our mother hoped that it would not come to that,” he says gently. “It was always supposed to be your father who would kneel, not you.”

“I know. I suppose that should make me feel better.”

“Does it?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know how to feel about...any of this. I think mostly I’m just...relieved. Daenerys is a good queen. She’s already proven that. And she’ll succeed where I failed. Handing over the kingdom feels...right.”

Jon is relieved to hear that...but he knows that there’s more. “But?”

“But,” she allows, “that’s just it, isn’t it? I failed.”

“You didn’t fail,” he insists. “You inherited this kingdom as a child, while Cersei Lannister was already working to put herself on the throne and I was already across the Narrow Sea trying to bring Daenerys back to Westeros. No one could have held onto the kingdom longer or better than you did. Our ancestor, Torrhen Stark, bent the knee when the Targaryens marched north.”

“Your other ancestors.”

He winces. “Aye.”

She turns to look at him fully. “Isn’t it strange? That our fathers waged a war over our mother? And here we are.”

“And here we are,” he agrees. “The children of two enemies and the woman they loved.”

She lowers her eyes. “But she didn’t love either of them.”

“No, I suppose not.”

She’s quiet for a moment. “I meant what I said. Daenerys is a good queen, and she’ll succeed where I failed. I think she’s a better choice. But I don’t know if I can put aside the past and embrace you as my brother just yet.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you never did,” he says gently. 

She lifts her eyes again. “You’ll be with Daenerys when she marches west?”

“Aye. Where she goes, I go.”

She nods. “When the war is over...perhaps we can talk.”

“I would like that.”

The corners of her mouth turn up, as if she would like to smile but can’t quite make herself, before she turns and leaves the room.

Not a moment has passed before the new queen appears in her place. “Jon?”

He bows his head. “Your Grace.”

Dany enters the throne room fully. “It’s eerie in here now, isn’t it?”

“It is. Too many ghosts, I think.”

She stands beside him, where Cassie stood only moments ago. “We both lost family in this room. Targaryen and Stark.”

“That we did,” Jon agrees. “And others lost their lives in this room, too. Not because they were cut down or burned, though. They died because the men in this room passed laws and gave orders that would kill them.”

They stare at the throne for a long moment.

“It’s ugly, isn’t it?” Dany asks at last.

He blows out a breath. “I wouldn’t say  _ that _ \--”

“It’s imposing, to be sure, but it is ugly. The throne at Dragonstone was much pleasanter to look upon.”

“I don’t think the throne was made to be pleasant to look upon,” Jon points out. “It was made to be feared.”

“True,” Dany allows. “But I don’t want people to follow me because they fear me, I want them to follow me because they love me.”

“They do love you,” he insists. “The Dothraki had never crossed the sea before you asked it of them. They didn’t go because they feared you, they went because they love you. On the march here, the men grew to love you because you showed that you care about them, and don’t just see them as pawns in your war. When you save the kingdom from the white walkers, they will love you, too.”

“Will they love me when I attack the westerlands? Tywin will not go down without a fight. I fear many men will die for his pride.”

“Perhaps,” he allows. “Or perhaps they will throw down their weapons and swear fealty. Even the greatest oaf must see how this will end.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps they think it better to die by dragonfire than white walkers. Which is the better way to die, I wonder? Fire or ice?”

Jon doesn’t want to tell her the truth, that he thinks fire is a better way to die. It’s what he would want, in any case. And at least death by fire means he cannot return as a wight.

_ Let us hope the Lannister soldiers don’t find themselves thinking the same thing. _

“Perhaps they will not have to die at all.”

“Perhaps.”

He can tell that she doesn’t believe him. He doesn’t believe himself, in truth. People will die. At Casterly Rock or at the Wall, it makes no difference. 

Dany reaches out, taking his hand in hers. “There’s something I should speak to you about.”

“Alright.”

She takes a deep breath. “You know that I cannot have any children.”

“I know.”

“And you are my only kin.”

He can sense where this conversation is going. He swallows. “Dany…”

“If I die--”

“ _ Dany. _ ”

“If I die,” she continues more forcefully, “then you must take the throne.”

“I cannot,” he says at once. “I’m a knight of your queensguard. I swore an oath.”

“I release you from it.” She waves an impatient hand. “If I die, you will take my place on the Iron Throne.”

“I don’t want that,” he protests.

“I don’t want to die,” she retorts. “But I will, whether in this war or fifty years from now, and I must have an heir. After the war, perhaps a new system can be developed...we can have kingsmoots, like the ironborn, or something, but if I die in the war…”

“If you die before me, then I have failed,” he tells her flatly. “I am a knight of your queensguard, and only death will release me from that vow. If you die, it will be because my sacrifice was not enough.”

She wraps her arms around him, cheek pressed to his shoulder. “Have I made a mistake, coming here? What’s the point of restoring the Targaryen dynasty if the last Targaryens die? Who will succeed us? The Baratheons? Have I deposed your sister only to have her take my place when I die?”

Jon has never quite thought about it before. Getting Dany to Westeros had taken years; he hadn’t thought of what would come after that. They were little more than children when this began; they hadn’t had time to think of what would happen when they grew old and died. 

But what  _ will _ happen? If Dany dies in battle, Jon will have died first. But if they survive the war? She cannot have children.

_ But I could sire children. _

He swore an oath not to, but Dany could release him from that oath. She could legitimize him and have him marry a highborn girl, and through him, the Targaryen line would be restored.

It’s not what he wants, but he swore to serve Dany, and if this is her will…

“We’ll come up with a plan after the war,” he says, tightening his embrace. “For now, just focus on the war. There will be time to consider heirs later.”

_ If there is a ‘later’ at all. _


	90. BENJEN VII

In the quiet of early dawn, the men gather around the funeral pyre. Benjen cannot remember the last time so many men were in the yard at Castle Black.

_ A fitting send-off, _ he thinks sadly.

Mormont clears his throat. “He was a good man. No...he was a great man. A maester of the Citadel, chained and sworn, and Sworn Brother of the Night’s Watch, ever faithful. No man was wiser, or gentler, or kinder. Here at the Wall, a dozen lords commander came and went during his years of service, but he was always there to counsel them. He counseled kings as well. He could have been a king himself, but when he was offered the crown, he refused it.” His usually gruff voice becomes tight. “He was the blood of the dragon, but now his fire has gone out. He was Aemon Targaryen. And now his watch is ended.”

_ “And now his watch is ended,” _ the men echo. Slowly, Mormont touches his torch to the pyre, and in moments, the small, pale body of Maester Aemon becomes engulfed in flames.

They stand and watch for a long time. No one can remember a time before Maester Aemon. He’s always been there, leaning on an arm, feeling his way along the walkways, there to offer a patient ear or kind word. 

_ And now his watch is ended. _

As the yard finally, slowly clears out, Jaime stands closer to Benjen. “You knew him well?”

Benjen nods. “I did. I always liked him. Even when I found out he was a Targaryen. He was the blood of the dragon, but his blood ran black, same as mine. That made him my family as much as the Starks of Winterfell.”

“I never liked maesters,” Jaime confesses. “The Grand Maester is...pathetic. A doddering old fool. Everyone blames me for killing the Mad King, but it was Pycelle who urged him to open the gates to my father. The maester I had as a boy was always scolding me during my lessons, punishing me on my father’s orders. I suppose I can’t blame him; my father is a fearsome man.”

“What is your point?” Benjen asks in mild exasperation. 

“My point is, I never liked maesters...but Aemon seemed like a good man.”

“He was. The best man the Watch has ever seen, I don’t doubt.”

“And now his watch is ended.”

“And now his watch is ended.”

They watch the flames for a long moment. 

Finally, Jaime speaks. “The Old Bear still wants to launch an attack tomorrow?”

Benjen nods. “Aye. He’s tired of waiting.”

“Foolish,” Jaime mutters. “We should wait until we have more men.”

“We aren’t going to get more men. Not for a while. All the men are in the south, fighting the Lannisters.” Benjen winces as soon as he says it. “I meant--”

“No, you’re right. They’re fighting my father, my whore sister, and the Greyjoy cunt she married. And every other Lannister of Casterly Rock will be backing my father in some stupid display of bravery, save Tyrion.”

“And the children,” Benjen says quietly.

Jaime’s face hardens. “And the children.”

He doesn’t talk about them often. And why would he? Jaime is their father in deed and nothing else. They were raised by Renly at Storm’s End, and Jaime was always their knightly uncle. By the time they learned the truth, he was already heading north to take the black.

“Do you miss them?”

“In truth? No,” Jaime admits. “I hardly knew them. And Cersei made it clear from the beginning that I was never to think of them as mine. I didn’t even meet Myrcella until…” He clears his throat. “Until we made Tommen.”

Benjen is quiet, letting him speak. He doesn’t imagine Jaime has gotten to speak about this before. 

“I tried to hold Myrcella,” Jaime continues. “When Cersei brought her to court. But she refused. She said everyone would realize. So I never tried to hold her or Tommen again. I barely even spoke to them. They became closer to Tyrion than to me. In some ways, I still don’t think of them as mine. They’re...tiny...golden-haired strangers.” He huffs out a breath, straightening his shoulders. “I don’t suppose you have any bastards.”

“Aye, well, that would require a woman.”

Jaime’s lips turn up in a smile. “True enough.” 

“Besides, I have Lommy and Hot Pie, and they’re sort of like children, aren’t they?”

“Infants,” Jaime corrects. “They’re as hungry and noisy as infants.”

“What do you know of infants?”

“I have many cousins,” Jaime says with a pained sort of face. “We’re a proliferous bunch.”

Benjen tilts his head in mock-consideration. “You know, Lommy has blond hair…and he’s from King’s Landing…”

Jaime gives him a small shove. “How dare you?”

Benjen grins. “Easily.”

Jaime grabs the front of his shirt, pulling him close. “Come to bed, Stark.”

So he does.

.

Benjen is asleep, warmed by the furs, fire, and Jaime’s naked skin against his when he hears the shout.

He stirs awake, frowning blearily into the dull orange glow of his room. A man frightened on watch? Someone slipping on ice, perhaps?

But then he hears another shout, and a scream, strangled and scared.

He sits up, reaching over to shake Jaime awake, but the other man is already slipping out of bed and into his clothes. “I heard. There’s trouble.”

They dress quickly, despite the many heavy layers; it’s become second nature by now. There are sounds of a scuffle outside, and Benjen jogs down the stairs and over the wooden walkway to see the source of the noise.

The only light in the yard comes from the sentry’s flames, and those flicker erratically with the wind. There’s a fight, with more men than should be out in the yard at this hour.

“What’s the meaning of this?!” he calls down to them.

“Benjen!” a lad cries before someone knocks him to the ground. There’s a growl, and when the man raises his head, Benjen sees ice blue eyes.

“ _ Men of the Watch! _ ” he shouts, fumbling for his sword. “ _ The dead are here! _ ”

The creature with ice blue eyes vaults towards him, but Benjen is already running to wake Mormont, Jaime hot on his heels. They shout at every man they pass, urging them to take up sword and flame.

“How did they get in?” Jaime asks, alarmed.

“Your guess is as good as mine!” Benjen throws open the door to the Lord Commander’s keep, running up the stairs as fast as his legs can carry him. He nearly knocks over the Old Bear himself in his haste. “Lord Commander!”

“I heard!” Mormont bellows. Benjen and Jaime turn on their heels, leading Mormont down the stairs. “How did they get in?”

“I don’t know,” Benjen admits. “There’s several of them in the yard.” He starts to lead Mormont to the yard, but the older man stops him with a firm grip on his shoulder.

“Go see what the rest of the army is doing,” he orders. 

“Yes, my lord!”

Benjen and Jaime scrabble for the cage, shouting at the sleeping sentry until he wakes with wide eyes. He clatters to his post, barely waiting for them to slam the door shut before he’s sending them up. As they go, Benjen peers out between the bars of the cage, watching the battle below. There are more flames burning now, and he can make out forty or so wights in the yard.

“How the fuck did they get in?” Jaime asks again. “They couldn’t have gone under, could they?”

“Not since we flooded the tunnel, no.” Benjen grips the cage. “They planned this somehow. All those weeks,  _ months _ of just standing there...and we did nothing.”

“What could we have done?” Jaime asks practically. 

“Attacked first.”

“We didn’t have the men.”

He’s right, but even so, Benjen feels stupid. They just sat there and waited for dragons and the Seven Kingdoms to come to their aid.

_ Stupid, stupid, stupid. _

When the cage rattles to a stop, Jaime opens it carefully, both men pointing their swords at the door. 

There’s the briefest pause before they hear an inhuman sound, and then brothers of the Night’s Watch are coming at them.

Only they aren’t brothers of the Night’s Watch, not anymore. Their eyes are the same icy blue of the man in the yard, and they move faster and smoother than any living man could. Benjen and Jaime swing their swords, cutting apart the dead men and driving them back. There are only ever a handful of men standing watch at a time; two of them are hacked to pieces, and the other three are immobilized long enough for the two living men to kick them over the edge of the Wall.

They lean over to watch the writhing corpses plummet to the ground. Below, the Army of the Dead watches, hissing and rolling in waves like the sea before a storm. The white walkers stare up at them, faces impassive...but then their leader, that king with an unnatural crown, smirks up at them.

Benjen sees wights peel away from the group, coming to the base of the Wall. 

“Are they...climbing?” Jaime asks in disbelief.

“Couldn’t be.” But Benjen watches as they brace themselves against the Wall, determined creatures on a mission. With a sinking feeling, he recalls his conversation with Samwell Tarly about the memories the white walkers keep. The wights that are climbing, have they done this before? Are these wildlings who once climbed over the Wall? Or brothers of the Night’s Watch, men who once tended to the Wall and know its strengths and its weaknesses?

“It’ll take them hours yet to climb up,” Benjen finally determines. 

“Enough time for us to get out of here.”

He looks at Jaime. “Get out of here?”

Jaime arches a brow. “Be realistic, Stark. We’re not going to hold off the entire Army of the Dead.”

“Maybe we don’t need to.”

“And what? We’ll sit here on our thumbs, kill every wight that comes over the Wall, and wait for Daenerys Targaryen? That didn’t work so well for us before, did it?”

“We swore an oath, Jaime,” Benjen reminds him. “Night gathers, and now my watch begins.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Jaime says irritably, but Benjen grips his arm. 

“Say the words.”

Jaime frowns. “It shall not end until my death.” He pauses. “I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post.”

Benjen adds his voice to Jaime’s. 

“I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come.”

“Fuck you, Stark,” Jaime snaps, heading for the cage. “Fine, we’ll not abandon the Wall, but someone will have to go south and warn the Northmen. If the wights can get over the Wall at Castle Black, they’ve likely done the same east and west of here.”

Benjen swears, skidding into the cage behind him. “And with the armies down south--”

“--there’s no one to defend them, exactly.”

As the cage rattles down, Benjen leans forward to watch the battle at Castle Black...and sees something far more troubling.

“Jaime…”

The other man peers out the cage too, swearing when he sees what Benjen sees. “Is that…?”

“Must be.”

Gathered outside the gates of Castle Black is a restless crowd. No, bigger than a crowd; an army. 

“Those dead fucks,” Jaime says passionately. “They’re coming from the south, which means they did get over the Wall east and west of here.”

Benjen slams his fist into the cage so hard it shudders. “Fuck! The castles. The abandoned ones manned by the wildlings. They only left skeleton crews behind.”

Jaime’s eyes are wide. “Do you think they planned this?”

“They had to have. Only a few can get over at a time. If a patrol spotted them, they’d pick them off at once. They wanted us all in one place. The fewer men at each castle, the easier it would be to get over. They stood outside for weeks so that we’d summon our men, and then they sent their scouts up and over the Wall.”

“More than scouts; that’s a bloody army out there. And who knows how many were sent south.”

Benjen curses. “With any luck, someone will have spotted them and ridden south.” He thinks of his family at Winterfell. Catelyn will be there, and the girls and the younger boys, no doubt. And Mikken, and Farlen, and Ser Rodrik, and Old Nan, and every other man and woman Benjen has known since he was a child.

The mountain clans will be hit first, as they always are when invaders come from over the Wall. Last Hearth will be the first great house the dead will encounter. That should give Winterfell time to ride south, or strengthen its defenses, if there are enough. 

_ And if there are not? _

He tries to think of a place the dead can’t reach. If they make it to White Harbor, they can take ships headed south. The dead can’t swim. 

The battle is all but finished when they hop out of the cage. The wildlings and men of the Night’s Watch have the wights surrounded, and by the time Benjen and Jaime reach them, they’ve hacked those wights to pieces, doused them with oil, and set flame to them. 

“There’s an army at the gate,” Benjen warns Mormont.

“Aye.” Mormont spits on the ground. “I heard. The men on watch?”

Benjen shakes his head. 

Mormont spits again. “So they were coming over the top.”

“Aye. We think they drew the other men to Castle Black and climbed over knowing the other castles would have skeleton crews.”

“Well then, we’re truly fucked,” Mormont declares.

Jaime steps forward. “Lord Commander, we must send men south.”

Mormont eyes him. He’s never hated Jaime, exactly, but he’s never been overly fond of the man. “We have ravens to warn them.”

“Lord Commander, with respect,” Benjen speaks up, “the mountain clans don’t abide by maesters; you know that as well as I do. They will not receive our ravens. More importantly, the North has no defenses left. All of the fighting men have gone south with my brother; even if the smallfolk make it to the great houses, their walls can only do so much, as we’ve already seen.”

“Brother Benjen reminded me of my vows atop the Wall,” Jaime says softly. “We are the shield that guards the realms of men. We’ve sworn our lives in service of the people of Westeros, to protect them from threats beyond the Wall. We can’t protect them from here, not if a battalion is already headed their way.”

Mormont gives a grudging nod of respect. “Aye, I think you may be right, Lannister.” 

The gates shudder and shake, hissing and growling coming from the other side.

“Benjen,” Mormont says suddenly. “I want you to lead two hundred men south.”

“Two hundred?” Benjen gapes. “That’s a third of our forces here!”

“Would you rather have twenty?” Mormont points to the gates. “We’re going to ride out and take down as many wights as we can, and you’re going to take your men and ride. Send fifty men to the mountain clans; they’re a stubborn bunch and hard to reach, but they’ve always respected the Watch. The rest of your men will ride to Last Hearth, and from there, to Winterfell. Evacuate the North to the best of your ability, and hold it until your brother and the Targaryen queen march north.”

Benjen hesitates. “My lord--”

“You’re First Ranger,” Mormont reminds him. “And a Stark of Winterfell. You know how to fight in the open, you know Winterfell and its surrounding lands and peoples better than any man here. Don’t let me down.”

Benjen bows his head. “As you command, my lord.”

.

The gate is nearly in splinters by the time Benjen and his men are mounted. There are two hundred men riding with him, including Jaime, Lommy, and Hot Pie. The lads grip the reins of their garrons nervously, eyeing the corpses through the gates.

With a shout, the gates peel away at last, but the wights don’t make it far into the yard before all the mounted men are charging them down. The wights shriek and scream and tear at the horses, but the beasts are nervous and cornered, and with nowhere left to go, they surge forward, stomping the skeletal soldiers and riding over them.

Some of the men fall or are pulled from their mounts, but most stay, swords cutting down wights as they charge through them. All of the wights have gathered at the gates, and they don’t move away in time. Benjen and his men swing and slash until they tumble out into open air. 

“This way!” Benjen shouts, sending his mare galloping. The men follow, and though wights peel after them, even they cannot catch up with horses running for their lives. It takes a good two miles before they’ve completely outrun the wights, and they draw up to catch their breaths and to sound off.

They’re missing fourteen of the men they started with; bad luck, to be sure, but nowhere near as bad as it could have been. They’ll lose more in the coming days and weeks, maybe even months. 

“Alright,” he says when they’ve caught their breaths. “I need fifty brothers of the Night’s Watch to go to the mountain clans.”

“I’ll go,” Yoren offers. 

“Thank you, Yoren. You will have the command.” Yoren will be a good fit amongst the mountain clans; he’s brusque and brash, and the Flint, Norrey, and Liddle will like that, or at least respect it. 

They choose forty nine more brothers; a few wildlings volunteer, but Benjen gently refuses them. Whenever wildlings cross the Wall, the mountain clans are always hit first and hardest, and Benjen doesn’t want a wronged mountain man to seek vengeance. The volunteers selected, the two groups part ways; Yoren and his men southwest to the mountains, Benjen and his men south to Last Hearth. 

He only hopes they beat the dead there.


	91. BRAN III

Bran wakes in the middle of the night.

He lies in his bed for a long moment, listening to the crackling of the hearth and Summer’s deep, even breaths. It’s warm in here, but his dream had felt so cold.

In the dream, he’d been a raven, flying through a storm. The icy winds had buffeted him this way and that, making him roll over and over, until he’d finally escaped. He’d stretched his wings and flown, until out of the darkness rose a great wall of ice.

There were other things in the dream. Men, both living and dead. Giants. Wolves. Even dragons. But there was something else on the other side of the Wall, something Bran knew should never, ever escape.

But a great horn sounded, once, twice, thrice, and the wall of ice shattered into a thousand thousand pieces, and over the wreckage came the great darkness that was never to escape.

In the dream, Bran had opened his beak and cawed. In the dream, the darkness looked at him with ice blue eyes.

That was the last thing he’d seen before he woke up. 

Summer shifts in the bed now, his eyes staring at Bran. The boy pats the space beside him, and Summer scoots up the bed, resting his enormous head on Bran’s stomach. The solid, warm weight of the direwolf feels reassuring after the cold, unfettered feeling he’d had in the dream. He pets the wolf’s great head, scratching behind his ears and screwing up his face when the wolf licks him. 

Had it been a green dream? He’s had them before, as has Rickon. Mother seems to believe in them, and if the practical Catelyn Stark believes in them, then Bran does, too. 

But what does it mean? Was it  _ the _ Wall he’d seen? Was it going to fall? Was the darkness he saw the Others?

He doesn’t have time to ponder, because the door creaks open.

“Bran? Are you awake?” Rickon asks, poking his head in the room.

“Yes.” 

Shaggydog pushes his way into the room, leaping onto the bed. Rickon clambers on after him, climbing over Summer to sit beside Bran. 

“I had a dream.”

Despite the direwolf over him and the fire in the hearth, Bran goes cold. “Me too.”

“About the Wall?”

Bran nods, still petting Summer’s head. It troubles him that Rickon had the same dream, because that means it’s a green dream, doesn’t it?

His younger brother has wide eyes. “Does that mean it’s going to fall?”

“I don’t know,” Bran admits. “Sometimes the things we see in our dreams mean something else. Maybe the Wall isn’t going to fall. Maybe the Night’s Watch is going to falter, or the Army of the Dead is going to pass through, or something.”

“Isn’t that just as bad, though?”

“Yes,” Bran admits.

They’re quiet for a long moment.

“Should we tell mother?” Rickon asks.

“I think so. She’d want to know.”

“Now?”

Bran hesitates. It’s late, and Mother will be asleep. But wouldn’t she want to know as soon as possible? “Yes,” he decides. “Now.”

As one, he and Rickon clamber out of the bed, Summer and Shaggydog hopping to the floor behind them. Bran leads the way to Mother’s room, reveling in the quiet of the castle.  _ The hour of the wolf. _

They pass Sansa’s chamber on the way, and are surprised to see their sister awake, too. She’s walking up and down the corridor, but she stops when she sees them. 

“What are you doing up?” Rickon asks.

“The baby’s kicking.” She rests a hand on her swollen belly. She hadn’t even known she was pregnant when Edric left, and at the rate the campaign in the south is going, she’ll have the babe before Edric even finds out he’s a father. “It woke me. But what about you? What are you two doing up?”

“We had a dream,” Rickon announces. 

Sansa looks between them. “The same dream?”

Bran nods. “About the Wall falling.”

Sansa’s eyes widen for a moment. She knows about the green dreams, but Bran senses that this is something else. “Did you...have the same dream?”

She bites her lip. “I think so,” she says slowly. “I’ve been having all sorts of queer dreams, but Mother and Maester Luwin said that was normal with a babe in the belly.”

“What was your dream?” Bran asks.

“I was out in a storm. I was looking for Edric. He was lost; I don’t know how I knew that, but I did. And I had to get through the storm to find him. And when I reached the end of the storm, I saw a great wall of ice. There was something on the other side, I knew it, but I couldn’t see it. And then a horn sounded three times, and the wall shattered and the darkness on the other side came through.” She hesitates. “Is that...what you dreamt?”

Bran feels cold. “Similar. Only I was a raven in my dream.”

“I was Shaggydog,” Rickon offers. 

Sansa, a raven, and Shaggydog. Does it mean anything?

“Have you had dreams like this before?” Bran asks.

Sansa shrugs. “I’ve had queer dreams before, but...well, how do you know if a dream is a green dream? If that’s what this even is?”

“It feels different,” Rickon tells her. “And the things in the dream come true.”

Sansa considers this. “Well...I don’t think any of my dreams have come true before.”

“Sometimes they don’t happen exactly the way they happen in the dreams,” Bran explains. “Sometimes things...mean other things.” But Sansa only looks nonplussed, so he shakes his head. “Maybe you’ve never had them before.”

“But we all had the same dream just now...so what does that mean?”

“I think it means we’re in trouble. We were going to tell Mother.”

“She’s asleep,” Sansa says at once.

“Don’t you think she’d want to hear about all of us having the same dream about the Wall falling?”

Sansa hesitates. “Well...I suppose so, yes.” She reaches out. “Help me up the stairs, will you?”

Walking slowly, the three Starks walk up the stairs to Mother’s chamber. Bored, the wolves leave them, roaming the castle in search of something more exciting. 

Sansa’s the one who wakes Mother, shaking her gently while Bran and Rickon linger in the doorway. Mother wakes at once, her eyes wide. “What is it? The babe…?”

“The babe and I are fine,” Sansa says gently, easing onto the side of the bed. “But we have to tell you something.”

Mother looks up at her sons. “What is it?”

The boys move into the room, closing the door behind them.

“We all had the same dream,” Bran tells her. 

Mother sits up straighter at that. “The same dream?”

“Yes. Just now. We all dreamt that we saw the Wall fall.”

Mother looks between the three of them. “Even you, Sansa?”

“Even me,” Sansa agrees. “I thought it was just the babe giving me dreams again, but when Bran and Rickon said they saw the same thing…”

Mother considers this. “If the two of you have had green dreams, I suppose it makes sense that all of my children can have them,” she says slowly. “Robb and Arya may have seen the same thing. As for the dream itself...the Wall has held for eight thousand years. It’s said it’s held by magic from the children of the forest.”

“Yes,” Bran says gently, “but the children of the forest are gone, and the Others are back.”

Mother hesitates. “Well...I suppose anything is possible. But how could anything tear down the Wall?”

“There was a horn,” Rickon tells her. “It sounded three times.”

“Three times,” she muses. “I wonder what it means…”

“We should write to the Wall,” Bran urges. 

“And tell them what?” Sansa asks skeptically. “That we dreamt the Wall was falling? Not even Uncle Benjen would believe that.”

“If white walkers can raise an army of corpses and dragons can be woken from stone, I would say your Uncle Benjen can put his faith in green dreams.” Mother starts to say something else, but a knock at the door has all four Starks staring at it, wondering what else this strange night will bring.

“Who is it?” Mother calls.

“It’s Maester Luwin, my lady. May I come in?”

“Yes.”

Relief floods Bran. Maester Luwin will know what to do. He’s always been very practical about these sorts of things. Perhaps he can elucidate the parts of the dream Bran doesn’t understand.

The old man enters, starting when he sees the small gathering. “Forgive me for interrupting…”

“It’s quite alright, Maester Luwin,” Mother tells him. “My children were woken in the night by a strange dream.”

“A strange dream?” The maester looks around at them. 

“What brings you here at this late hour?” she presses.

He clears his throat. “A raven, my lady, from Last Hearth. The bird woke me from my slumber, and once I read the contents of the scroll...I thought it best to make haste, my lady.”

Mother’s face is grave as he comes forward, handing her the scroll. She opens it, the color draining from her cheeks as she reads.

“What is it?” Rickon asks.

She clears her throat. “The Umbers’ maester writes to us that over a hundred men of the Night’s Watch, including your Uncle Benjen, rode to Last Hearth to warn them that wights had crossed over the Wall. They may be in the North even now. Your Uncle Benjen and his men are urging everyone to move south and shelter in whatever holdfasts and castles they can.”

Bran feels himself going cold. “The dream…”

“Yes.” Mother rolls up the scroll. “Your dream appears to have been true, in its own fashion.”

Sansa’s hands clutch her belly protectively. “What does it mean?”

Mother’s face is grim. “It means we had best pray your father comes back in time.”


	92. ARYA VI

Arya wakes with a start, hands closing reflexively over the blankets. The bed dips, and then she feels Nymeria’s hot breath and rough tongue on her face.

“Get off,” she grunts, trying to push the wolf’s face away, but Nymeria gets in a few more licks before she settles beside Arya, her golden eyes glowing in the dark room.

It’s cold in the room; colder than Arya thought it could get here in King’s Landing. She likes it. It makes her feel alive. She’s a Stark of Winterfell, and winter is in her blood. 

Winter. Ice. The Wall.

The dream comes rushing back. Needle dancing in the dark. The wall of ice glimmering in the starlight. A horn blasting three times. The wall shuddering and collapsing...and over the rubble, true darkness.

It makes her think of Old Nan’s stories, the ones about the Long Night. Theon used to jest that Old Nan’s stories were so detailed because the old woman had been present during the last Long Night, and though they had always laughed, some part of Arya had always wondered if there might be more to Old Nan than she let on. 

It was only a dream, though, and like as not, it was drawn from Old Nan’s stories. Arya knows the second Long Night is coming, and she knows what awaits them all. Of course she’d have a dream about the Wall falling.

_ But this dream felt different. _ She doesn’t know how to explain it, only that it wasn’t like her other dreams.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” she tells Nymeria. The wolf’s ears twitch, but she keeps her head on her paws, staring at her human. “It was just a dream. Wasn’t it?”

Nymeria doesn’t say anything.

Between the dream and the cold air, Arya’s wide awake now. She could try to make herself go back to sleep, but somehow she doesn’t think she’ll be able to. 

“Want to go for a walk?”

Nymeria lifts her head at once, ears perked at that last magical word. As soon as Arya pushes back the blankets, Nymeria jumps off the bed, spinning in happy circles while Arya puts on shoes and a cloak. As soon as she opens the door, Nymeria bounds out excitedly, running up and down the corridor before settling at Arya’s side. 

It had angered Arya, when she found out she was to remain in King’s Landing while her father and brothers and even her Aunt Lyanna were marching west to Casterly Rock. 

“I can fight,” she had protested, but Father had been firm.

“I need you safe. There will be other battles, I promise you.” He’d lowered his voice. “Besides, your mother will kill me if she finds out I let you join us.”

Jon hadn’t been willing to intercede on her behalf, nor had Robb, nor Theon, nor Aunt Lyanna, nor even Edric, who Arya had kicked for being a traitor, but she doubts that even Edric could have swayed her father.

So she had remained in the Red Keep, watching as Daenerys’s army marched west.

They hadn’t been the only ones to depart; Cassie left with Ellaria Sand, Oberyn Martell’s paramour and mother to several of the Sand Snakes Arya had come to admire. The two women, along with a small retinue, are headed to the Water Gardens of Dorne, where Cassie will be under the protection of Prince Doran. No one will say it, but Arya knows that Daenerys’s advisers fear Baratheon loyalists putting Cassie back on the throne in the dragon queen’s absence; if Cassie is hidden away with Targaryen loyalists, however, there’s no risk of that.

There aren’t many people Arya knows left in King’s Landing. Daenerys had left Lord Tyrion behind as her Hand, and Aunt Lyanna had left her ladies-in-waiting, Ros and Wynafryd, behind, but they’re all grown, and not what Arya would call friends.

At least there are people her age here; Shireen Baratheon, and Cersei’s bastards, Tommen and Myrcella. Arya likes them all. Shireen is always full of stories, some of which she makes up herself. Myrcella has all of her mother’s beauty and none of her cruelty; she’s always inventing games for them to play, or telling dirty jokes she overheard. Tommen is nervous and shy, but he’s very kind, and his cats have taken a liking to Nymeria. Arya was wary at first, knowing Nymeria’s wild streak, but she’s found the three cats napping on or beside Nymeria more than once, absorbing the direwolf’s body heat while Nymeria dozes without concern.

Arya likes Tommen and Myrcella’s protectors, too. The Hound was instructed to watch over Cersei’s children while she was still Lady of Storm’s End; when she’d been exiled, he’d asked to stay on, his fondness for Tommen and Myrcella outweighing his house’s loyalty to the Lannisters. He acts gruff and angry, but he is always kind to the four young people, in his own way.

Brienne of Tarth is the daughter of one of Renly’s bannermen, and like the Mormonts and the spearwives beyond the Wall, she can fight as well as any man. She wears armor and cuts her hair like a man, and when she sees Arya drilling in the yard, she offers to spar with her. It ends in a draw, both women with their blades pointed at the other, both of them smiling at having found a worthy opponent. 

Arya wonders if anyone of them are awake now. She could use someone to talk to until she feels tired again. 

Nymeria leads the way out to the godswood--or what the southerners call a godswood. In truth the “heart tree” is an oak covered in smokeberry vines. Red dragon’s breath grows below it, a poor imitation of the red leaves that grow on every weirwood. 

“Do the old gods come to such a place?” she’d asked her father when they first came to King’s Landing years ago. “If there isn’t a weirwood with a face carved into it, how can they see us?”

“The old gods are more than just weirwood trees with faces,” he’d told her. “The old gods can be found in any tree or river or rock. They can see us from any godswood, and hear our prayers.”

Even so, Arya hadn’t liked praying before the oak. She only goes out now because Nymeria is leading, and Arya doesn’t have anywhere better to be.

When they step outside, Arya gasps, for the ground is covered in a blanket of snow.

It doesn’t snow in King’s Landing. Everyone had told her that. Even the coldest winters here are like a summer’s day in the North. So to see snow on the ground and in the trees, to watch fat flakes drift from the sky, to feel them land on her face and hair, is truly something.

Nymeria rolls in the snow, pleased to see it so far south. Arya joins her, packing it into snowballs and throwing them at the wolf. It isn’t a sturdy snow, but it’s enough, and Nymeria leaps in the air, snapping her jaws at the snowballs and wagging her tail.

“Seven hells,” comes a voice from the doorway, and girl and wolf both look up at the newcomer. 

It’s Lord Tyrion, wrapped in a wool cloak and staring at the snow in amazement. 

“I’ve never seen it snow here,” he continues, stepping fully outside. “They say it hasn’t in hundreds of years.”

“Lots of things are happening now that haven’t happened in many years,” she points out.

“True,” he allows. “The Long Night, direwolves below the Wall, dragons, a Targaryen on the throne...now snow in King’s Landing.” His legs move stiffly through the snow. Nymeria moves to greet him, and in her excitement, accidentally knocks him on his rump.

“Nymeria!” Arya scolds. “I’m sorry, my lord--”

“It’s quite alright,” Tyrion assures her, reaching up to scratch Nymeria beneath the chin. “I much prefer sitting to standing.”

Arya calls Nymeria to her lest she bury Lord Tyrion deeper in the snow. “What are you doing up this late, my lord?”

“I’m always up late. I was taking a walk to clear my head when I passed by. But what were  _ you _ doing up so late, Lady Arya?”

“I had a dream. Couldn’t get back to sleep.”

“A bad dream?”

She shrugs, her hands pushing the snow around in a vaguely familiar shape. “I don’t know. A strange dream. It was about the Wall, and the Others.”

“Ah.” Lord Tyrion watches the snow in her hands. “I think we’re all dreaming of those things these days.”

“Probably.”

He scoots closer. “Is that Winterfell?”

She looks down and realizes that she has indeed started to form a familiar sprawl of walls and towers. “Oh. Yes, I think.” She scoops more snow towards her, building the glass gardens. Lord Tyrion helps her, gathering snow and forming halls and battlements. When it comes time to make the godswood, Arya goes to the great oak, plucking some red dragon’s breath from its base and nestling it where the heart tree should be.

The sun is creeping over the Blackwater Rush by then, the first light of dawn streaming into the courtyard. The air grows warmer, and soon the snow on the ground begins to melt, and Winterfell with it.

Arya watches in dismay. “We worked so hard on it.”

“Perhaps it will snow again,” Tyrion offers. “If it happened this night, it may well happen again.”

“Perhaps.” It still makes her sad, to watch her home melt away.

_ Winterfell will never truly fall, though _ , she has to remind herself. “Perhaps next time we can build your home.”

Tyrion huffs out a laugh. “I would wreck it before the sun got to it.”

Arya can’t say she’s surprised; she knows there’s no love lost between Tyrion and his family. He’s loving and kind to Tommen and Myrcella, but from what Arya knows, he has no affection for his father or sister. “Are you...how do you feel about the Seven Kingdoms marching on Casterly Rock?”

He gives her a sardonic look. “You may think ill of me for saying this, but in truth, I feel a sick sense of satisfaction. My father has always taken pleasure in killing. The Tarbecks, the Reynes, the Targaryens. He has never born insult well, and it’s made him many enemies. Now the empire he has carefully built on fear is collapsing beneath him, and no amount of gold can save him from fire and blood. My father and sister have sown a legacy of hatred and bloodshed, and now it’s time for them to reap.” He gives Arya a small smile. “In some ways I wish I was there to see it.”

“Me too,” she mutters.

“Your father was right to keep you here. My father is a cunning man, and Euron’s men are as savage as he is, I’m told. Not even your father can guarantee your safety where they’re involved.”

“I don’t need anyone to guarantee my safety,” she agues. “I’m a better fighter than most men. I’m better than Edric, and he’s the Sword of the Morning!”

“I do not doubt that,” Tyrion says gently. “But Edric has been the Lord of Starfall since he was a babe. You are still your father’s daughter. It is only right he wants to protect you, even if you do not need it.”

There is some sense in what he says, but she still doesn’t like it. 

Tyrion shifts, wincing. “I beg your pardon, Lady Arya, but could you help me to my chamber? My legs have gone stiff being out here in the snow.”

“Of course, my lord.” She helps him up and gives him her arm, walking slowly while his stiff legs move towards his chamber. Nymeria follows, sometimes disappearing down a corridor only to reappear up another. 

“She knows the Red Keep well,” Tyrion notes.

“No, she only follows my scent.” 

“You named her after the Rhoynish princess, I take it?”

“Yes,” Arya says proudly. “I thought about naming her Rhaenys or Visenya, but I couldn’t pick between the two, and then my sister Sansa said it would be bad form to name her after a Targaryen. So I chose Nymeria.”

“You are an admirer of female warriors, it would seem.”

“They’re more interesting than the male ones.”

Tyrion laughs. “Well, you have me there. Perhaps your name will go down in history as theirs did.”

Arya likes that idea very much.


	93. ROBB III

He is cold, colder than he remembers ever being. 

He follows in the wake of a storm; he can see houses and barns peering out of the snowdrifts, can see carts and horses and even men and women and children frozen by the cold, their anguished faces and hands reaching out from their snowy grave.

Up ahead, he sees a wall made of ice. There’s something cold and dark and sinister lurking behind it, and though he cannot see it, he knows it cannot be allowed to break through.

Only, it does break through. A horn sounds three times, and then the wall of ice crumbles, and the cold and dark and sinister thing breaks through.

He stands, frozen, as the cold, dark, and sinister thing spreads over the land like a plague. He watches as it moves south, coming for Winterfell. 

_ No. _

“No!”

“Robb?”

Concerned purple eyes are staring down at him, and with a start, he realizes that he’s in Daenerys’s tent. Not in the North, not at Winterfell, not in some frozen wasteland where death itself comes for those he loves.

He sinks back against the bed, breathing deeply. “A dream.”

Daenerys nestles into his side, resting her hand on his chest. “A nightmare. Your heart is racing.”

“It was a nightmare,” he agrees. “Forgive me for startling you.”

“We cannot help our dreams.” She kisses his neck. “What was this nightmare? Sometimes speaking it aloud takes the terror away.”

He knows she’s probably right. “I was in the North,” he tells her. “At least, I think it was the North. There had been a storm. All around me were houses and barns and holdfasts, but they were buried beneath snow. Men and women and children were there also, but the storm had taken them, too. Up ahead of me was a wall of ice. A horn blew three times, and then the wall fell, and something dark came over the wall and headed straight for Winterfell.”

“It was just a dream,” Daenerys murmurs. 

“I know. I feel foolish just saying it aloud.”

“You aren’t foolish, and neither was your dream. Winterfell is your home, your family’s there. Of course you’re afraid of what might happen to them. We’re at war, Robb Stark.”

_ At war. _ It feels strange to say, especially given the nature of their enemy. Taking Casterly Rock will be a battle, but the real war will be against the dead. And Robb  _ is _ afraid of what might happen to his family. Mother and Sansa and Bran and Rickon are there, as well as every other person Robb has known since he was a babe. Maester Luwin, Ser Rodrik, Rory, and Beth Cassell, Vayon and Jeyne Poole, Old Nan, Hodor, Mikken, Farlen and Palla. What if the fighting goes south? What if the dead come to Winterfell?

“Robb?”

He pulls himself from his musings, kissing the concern from Daenerys’s face. “I’m sorry. I just can’t stop thinking...Winterfell has always been the safest place I know. It was built by Bran the Builder eight thousand years ago after the dead were defeated. No enemy has ever taken it. But the enemy we’re facing...they aren’t like Boltons or Dustins or any other men who have tried to take Winterfell. They’re different creatures entirely.”

“The Wall will hold them back,” Daenerys says, but Robb can’t stop thinking about the way the wall of ice fell. 

“I hope you’re right.”

She kisses him again. “Tell me about Winterfell.”

He gives her a small smile. “There’s not much to tell. It’s a castle. It’s in the North. My family has lived in it for eight thousand years.”

“Eight thousand years, and that’s all you can say?” she teases. “I heard it’s one of the biggest castles in the Seven Kingdoms.”

“That’s true,” he admits. “The maesters think it was smaller once, and that the Starks built onto it over the years. It was built over hot springs and the water is piped all throughout the keep, so even in the dead of winter, it’s always warm. There are glass gardens, too, where we grow fruits and vegetables and flowers. There’s a godswood as well, with a heart tree. A  _ real _ heart tree, not the great oak in the Red Keep. It’s a weirwood tree, with bark white as snow and leaves red as blood, and a face carved into it by the children of the forest. When my mother came to Winterfell, my father built a sept for her, because she was born in the Light of the Seven.”

“Is there a septon?”

“There is. Chayle is his name. He grew up on the shores of the White Knife. He also has charge of the library. There’s a septa, too; Mordane. My parents brought her to Winterfell to teach my sisters how to be proper young ladies.”

He can feel Daenerys smile against his skin. “I don’t think it worked.”

“Not for Arya,” he admits. “She was always running off and tussling with my brother Bran and getting dirty instead of doing her lessons. Sansa was the opposite. She’s always been a lady, even before we brought in Septa Mordane.”

“She’s married to Lord Dayne, isn’t she?”

“Only just; we departed for Dragonstone a few weeks after the wedding.”

“Well then, we must end this war quickly so husband and wife can be reunited.” Daenerys is quiet for a moment. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

She props herself up on an elbow. “Are you promised to someone?”

He shakes his head. “No.” His lips curl in a smile. “I went to Dorne some time ago to court Arianne Martell...but when Theon and I got there, we found her already courted by his sister.”

Daenerys giggles. “I see. And there was no one else?”

“There was no time,” he says honestly. “After that came the war--or the beginnings of it, in any case.” He strokes her back. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You’re the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Surely you plan to take a husband and have children.”

A shadow passes over her face. “Take a husband, yes. Have children, no.”

“No?” he asks in surprise.

She shakes her head. “I can’t have children. After I lost my son...the witch who birthed him cursed me that my womb would never quicken again.”

That takes Robb aback. “Oh.”

“Not many people know,” she offers, almost apologetically. “We...felt that the people of Westeros might feel less inclined to accept me as their queen if I could not produce heirs.” 

“I mean no offense,” he says slowly, “but if you cannot have children...who will rule after you?”

“I don’t know,” she admits. “I had thought to make Jon my heir, but he says he does not want it.”

That would create a whole host of complications, Robb is sure. Naming Jon her heir would mean legitimizing him, and legitimizing him would mean that, as Rhaegar’s son, his claim would come before hers. But who else would rule? The Baratheons are the closest thing the Targaryens have to relatives, and Daenerys has already ousted the Baratheon heir from the Iron Throne. Would Cassie be named Daenerys’s heir even after everything?

“You look upset,” she tells him.

“I’m not upset. I just...wish there was a simple solution.”

“Oh, trust me, so do I,” she assures him, settling back into his side. “But who knows? Perhaps a miracle will happen.”

“This is the age of miracles,” he grants. “Or at the very least, unusual circumstances.” He keeps stroking her back. “Who will you marry?”

“I don’t know. Someone who’s content to let his wife rule and never have children with her.”

_ I would be content, _ Robb thinks, but it’s a stupid thought. He can’t be the Prince Consort  _ and _ the Lord of Winterfell at the same time. Besides, Daenerys hasn’t even said that she  _ wants _ to marry him. He’s probably just a delightful distraction to her before the real war begins, and once it’s over, even if he’s still alive, she’ll find some perfumed lord who will marry her strictly for convenience.

Daenerys brushes the hair from his forehead. “She’s very lucky.”

“Who?”

“The woman you’ll marry.”

He kisses her so passionately that he feels himself grow hard again. When he moves between her legs, she’s already wet and eager for him.

Someday they will have to marry other people, but tonight, they belong to each other.

.

In the morning, the commanders meet to discuss the siege on Casterly Rock. The Lannister troops had fallen back once they saw Daenerys’s army coming; now they wait just beneath the walls. 

“Tywin Lannister knows he is doomed,” Stannis Baratheon begins. “He knows that our armies outnumber his, and even if he was cowardly enough to hide behind his walls, he knows what befell Harren the Black. He will meet us in battle, and fight to the bitter end.” He runs a finger over the map on the table, indicating Casterly Rock. “Cersei will not give up the Rock. She has her father’s pride, but unlike Tywin, she will hide in the Rock as long as she can. She also has the Iron Fleet, which means she can escape if the Rock is threatened.”

_ “Can _ the Rock be threatened?” Daenerys asks. 

“Not by an army.” It’s Renly Baratheon who speaks now, stepping forward to stand beside his brother. “No army has ever taken the Rock. Even if they were to get over the walls, the castle you see is only a fraction of the keep. The Rock goes deep underground, and the Lannisters can collapse the passages if they need to.”

Daenerys considers this. “So how do we defeat Cersei?”

Aunt Lyanna clears her throat, stepping forward. “When Lord Tyrion lived at the Rock, he was given command of the sewers. For...reasons...he built a secret passageway that begins at the sea and ends beneath one of the main guard towers. All it takes is ten good men to climb up the passageway, get into the Rock, and when the Lannister men are distracted by our armies, take Cersei prisoner and open up the gates.”

“I would like to volunteer to lead this mission,” Asha says. 

Daenerys looks at her with interest. “You?”

“My beloved uncle will be in the Rock with Cersei,” Asha says grimly. “He’s been trying to kill me for some time. I figured I’d let him get in a few swings before I take him down.”

“I’m coming with her,” Theon says, standing beside his sister. 

Daenerys considers them. “Very well.”

“With respect,” Aunt Lyanna speaks up, “you will need to go in a small craft so as not to attract attention from Euron’s men. All the ships in your fleet are of a goodly size, Lady Asha.”

Stannis perks up. “I know just the ship--and the man to captain it.” 


	94. THEON IX

Theon uses his fingers to push apart the burlap, peering up at what little he can see. A blue sky overhead, and white granite cliffs to the far left.

“Cover yourself,” Ser Davos Seaworth scolds, pulling the burlap over Theon’s face. 

“I can’t breathe!” he complains. “It smells like onions!”

“Better than a Lannister guard seeing you.”

“You don’t think they’ll be suspicious of you?” comes Asha’s voice from beside Theon’s knee. “Just a lone man, rowing a skiff full of onions?”

“That’s exactly why they won’t be suspicious of me. If it worked during the siege of Storm’s End, it will work now.”

It has worked so far, Theon can’t help but allow. While the sounds of battle rage above, Davos’s skiff has passed right under the Lannisters’ noses without so much as a sneeze. Even the Iron Fleet has not stopped them; Davos guesses that most of the men are on land with Tywin Lannister’s men, and those that remain on their ships are too busy awaiting orders to pay any mind to an old man with a skiff full of onions.

“Now, you’ll know what to do once you’re inside?” Davos asks. “Because I’m not much of a fighter, I’ll warn you now.”

“We’re ironborn, ser,” Asha tells him. “We’re born fighters.”

Her men rumble in agreement, until Davos shushes them lest their pride carry across the water. 

All turns to darkness, and when Theon peers out from beneath the burlap, he can see them passing beneath the Rock itself. The skiff lurches to a stop.

“Alright,” Davos murmurs. 

As one, the ironborn throw back their burlap coverings, onions rolling around the skiff. A few plop into the water, bobbing merrily as the skiff rocks the water. 

There’s a ladder going up into a dark hole; Qarl the Maid leads the way, Asha behind him and Theon behind her. They pass through a chamber, one dully lit by blue glass windows; Theon sees a bed and what looks like shelves of books. He can’t wonder at the room for too long, for sunlight hits them from overhead, and he realizes Qarl is pushing back the stone covering the ladder.

They climb up one at a time, swift and silent as they can. There are men running this way and that, all of them shouting at each other. No one seems to notice the ironborn climbing out of the sewer.

Just as Lady Lyanna had said, the south gate is mere yards away; the handful of soldiers they encounter are silenced before they can cry out, throats slashed and blood staining the pavement as they fall. Theon never stops, just follows his sister and the others to the gates.

They’re barred so heavily that all but their two sentries work to free the gates, muffling their grunts and growls of frustration. But at last the great doors are freed, and the ironborn pull them back to let in the Dornish army. 

Oberyn Martell and the Sand Snakes lead the Dornish, determination plain on their faces as they seek the Mountain Who Rides.

_ Not for much longer, he won’t, _ Theon thinks, he and Asha following them. The Mountain is sure to be by Cersei, and Cersei is sure to be by Euron; perhaps all three can be killed with one swift stroke.

Oberyn leads them to the throne room, where the Kings of the Rock once held court. Theon remembers a story told to him long ago of a King of the Rock who had taken a hundred ironborn captives as punishment for attacking his lands; every time the ironborn encroached upon his territory, he killed one of the hostages. One of those hostages would go on to become King of the Iron Isles.

Theon knows they’ve found the throne room when they encounter a small battalion defending a set of oaken doors; the Lannister men hunch into their armor and their weapons, going on the defensive. They were prepared for more men in armor with cumbersome weapons--none of them were expecting the Sand Snakes, agile women in leather that bends with them and weapons as slender as they are. Theon and Asha cut through those left standing, and together, the motley party pushes open the great oaken doors.

The throne room is no less than Theon had expected, all white stone and red and gold hangings. There is a throne at the far end of the room, and the woman occupying it can only be Cersei Lannister. 

Theon only saw her a handful of times during his visit to King’s Landing; in truth, his mind had been on other things. But the woman cannot be anyone else, with long golden hair down to her elbows and a gown of deep crimson slashed with gold. Her crown is made of rubies set with gold, and on her face is a look of shock.

But Theon cares little for that, for standing beside her is a man he had not thought to see again.

Euron Crow’s Eye smiles at him as if he knows every secret Theon’s ever had. One eye is obscured with an eye patch, but the other eye pierces through his very soul.

“Asha! Theon!” he booms. “I had not thought to see my niece and nephew again so soon!” He turns to Cersei. “Their heads will look splendid hanging from my ship, don’t you think?”

“Enough,” Asha says coldly. “Our men are in the Rock, and you don’t have the numbers to defeat us.”

Cersei’s face is pale. “Guards!”

The ground  _ shakes _ as an enormous figure emerges from the shadows.

_ The Mountain Who Rides. _

Theon has seen him only once before, and on that day, he’d beheaded his own horse and tried to kill Robb at the tourney. He had only stopped when his brother and King Robert intervened, and even then he’d stormed off.

It isn’t difficult to imagine that this man is capable of great violence. Everyone knows the stories. Now Theon wonders what will be stronger: the Mountain, or Elia Martell’s memory.

Oberyn Martell spins his spear. “I’ve been waiting for this moment a long time.”

As the Sand Snakes fan out around him, weapons in hand, Cersei seems to realize how well and truly fucked she is. 

“No,” she says shrilly, hands clutching the arms of her throne. “No, it wasn’t supposed to be like this!  _ Guards! _ ”

“They’re all fighting,” Asha tells her. “They won’t come for you.”

The Mountain swings his greatsword at Oberyn, but Arianne and Tyene are on his back at once, moving swift as lightning. The Mountain roars, throwing them off his back; Obara lunges forward, skewering his leg with her spear and rolling away, using her shield to cover her as he sinks to one knee.

He’s down, faster than even Theon thought possible. Nym hurls one of her throwing knives, but he raises an arm, swatting it away as if it were no more than a gnat. When he lunges for Arianne, Obara cracks her whip, the leather coiling around his wrist.

Cersei stands up abruptly, tripping towards Theon and Asha.

“It’s him you want, isn’t it?” she asks in the same shrill voice as before, pointing to Euron. “You can have him. I’ll give you the Iron Islands, I’ll give you Casterly Rock and all its gold, whatever you want, I--”

She never makes it fully off the dais, for Euron’s hand reaches into her golden hair, yanking her head back so sharply she screams.

“No,” Euron growls. “No one betrays me. Not even you.” His other hand wraps around her pale white throat.

Theon glances at Asha and sees the same uncertainty he feels reflected back at him. Do they stop him? If they do, Daenerys will kill Cersei anyway. But to watch him murder her…

Tyene screams, and when Theon looks, he sees the Mountain with his hand around her ankle, dragging her towards him. He and Asha rush to grab her under the arms, tugging her back.

The Mountain twists his hand, making Tyene scream again, but Oberyn brings down his spear, driving it through the meaty arm until the Mountain is the one screaming, releasing his hold on Tyene. When Theon and Asha drag her away, her leg flops at an odd angle, and Theon realizes that it’s broken. 

“I’m fine,” she grits out. “Kill Euron.”

They drag her farther away, just in case, before setting her down and turning to Euron and Cersei.

Cersei is still alive, but only just. Her hands grip Euron’s wrists, her green eyes bulging.

_ “Valonqar,” _ she whispers, and then goes slack.

Theon’s stomach turns. Not with remorse, not with pity, but with disgust, that even creatures as vile as Cersei and Euron could turn on each other like this. 

Before Euron has fully relinquished his death-grip on Cersei, Asha throws her axes at him. Euron sees it coming; he ducks out of the way just in time, unsheathing his sword. Theon and Asha pull out their own swords, ready. 

Euron lunges forward, whirling his sword wildly; Asha meets his sword once, twice, thrice, before he pushes their locked blades so hard that she tumbles back. Theon rushes in to take her place, driving the point of his sword at Euron. 

His uncle is cunning, turning at the last second so that Theon falls forward. Euron knees him between the legs, and when Theon doubles over, he uses the butt of his sword to hit Theon in the back, sending him sprawling to his knees.

Asha runs for Euron, and Theon sees the Martells descend on the Mountain; Obara and Arianne have their whips around the Mountain’s wrists, his arms spread as he kneels, helpless and bleeding, before Oberyn Martell.

“You raped her! You murdered her! Say her name!” Oberyn is shouting.

The Mountain pauses. “Elia Martell,” he growls at last. He lunges, but Oberyn is faster, leaping into the air and slamming his spear through the Mountain’s heart with all of his weight. 

“Theon!”

He turns, watching Asha sidestep a cut too late; a bloody gash opens up in her arm as she stumbles to the side. 

Theon scrambles to his feet, running at Euron. The older man raises his sword, locking their blades in place.

“Little Theon!” he coos, his blue eye smiling. “The greenlanders taught you some things, I see. And now you think this makes you ready to rule the ironborn, is that it?”

“Not me,” Theon says, and leans to the side.

Euron’s confused face splits in half when Asha’s axe lodges in his skull. The Crow’s Eye drops his sword, reaching up as if to pluck the axe from his face, but he sways on the spot and crashes to the ground, blood spilling out onto the white flagstones.

Theon and Asha embrace each other, breathing heavily. On the other side of the room, the Martells are on the floor around Tyene, arms around each other as they, too, breathe heavily and revel in their victory.

“You’re hurt,” Theon remembers, pulling back.

“Just a scrape,” Asha insists, but she lets him look at her arm. The cut is shallow; a wash and bandaging should suffice. 

Oberyn walks over to them, looking down at the bodies of Euron and Cersei. 

“I want to bring her body to Lord Tywin,” he decides. “And set her before him as he had my sister’s children set before Robert Baratheon after he sacked the city.”

“As you will,” Asha tells him. “We should bring the Mountain’s head with us, and our uncle’s, too, as a gift for the queen.”

So they cut off Euron and Ser Gregor’s heads; Asha carries Euron’s, Arianne carries the Mountain’s, Oberyn carries Cersei, and Obara carries Tyene, taking care of her broken leg. Together, the Greyjoys and the Martells leave the throne room, Theon and Nym leading the way with knives ready.

But there is no need for their caution; what Lannisters are not dead have thrown down their swords, backs to the walls as Dornishmen and men from the Stormlands walk up and down, keeping an eye on their prisoners. When the Greyjoys and Martells pass through the gate, Theon sees Unsullied throwing a Targaryen banner over the archway.

The battle is won; corpses litter the battlefield, and behind them, men in Lannister crimson, hands empty in surrender. Daenerys’s army surrounds them, wiping blood and sweat from their faces.

Smoke fills the sky, and when Theon looks over his shoulder, he sees the Iron Fleet--or what’s left of it. The ships are a smoking, smoldering ruin, and three dragons wheel overhead. 

They watch as the dragons circle over the armies before touching down over the corpses. The great black one, Drogon, roars so hard the ground shakes. Daenerys climbs off his back, and Jon climbs off the green one, staying to the side and behind her as they move to the fore of their army. 

Four Dothraki ride towards them; one of them has a whip in his right hand, and the other end of the whip is coiled around the wrists of a man who can only be Tywin Lannister.

The old lion is proud even in his captivity. He holds his head high, stumbling as he does behind the Dothraki; when they rein up suddenly, he careens forward onto his knees. His captor flicks his whip, releasing his wrists with a sharp snap. 

Queen Daenerys says something to the Dothraki, who ride off to the side. There are Dothraki and Unsullied alike who stand close by, but the dragons are closer, serpentine heads peering at Tywin over their mother’s head.

“Tywin Lannister,” Daenerys says coldly.

“Daenerys Targaryen,” he returns in a tone to match hers.

“I’ve been waiting for this day for a long time.” She puts a thoughtful look on her face. “If only we had a song for such an occasion. There was one written about your great victories, wasn’t there?” She turns to the men, where Theon sees Tom of Sevenstreams with his lute at the ready. “You’re a singer; do you know the song about Tywin Lannister?”

“I do, Your Grace.” Tom plucks a dark note. 

_ “And who are you? _

_ The proud lord said, _

_ That I must bow so low? _

_ Only a cat of a different coat _

_ That’s all the truth I know.” _

He keeps playing as Daenerys turns back to Tywin Lannister. His face is a shade paler, but only just.

“You killed my father.”

“My son killed your father.”

“House Lannister killed my father. And it was on House Lannister’s orders,  _ your  _ orders, that your men dragged Princess Rhaenys from under her bed, smashed Prince Aegon’s head against the wall, and raped and murdered Elia Martell.”

“Yes,” Tywin says with soft malice. “And I would give the order again.”

“You’ll never get the chance.” Daenerys nods, and Oberyn comes forward, letting Cersei’s lifeless body slide out of his arms and onto the ground. His shock has only just registered when Asha and Arianne drop Euron and Ser Gregor’s heads beside her.

“Ser Gregor is dead,” Daenerys says softly, watching as Tywin reaches for his daughter. “Your daughter is dead. Her husband is dead. House Lannister is dead. Your legacy...is dead.”

For the first time, true fear strikes Tywin Lannister. “No.”

“Yes.” Daenerys’s purple eyes glitter. “Your daughter is dead. Her children are bastards born of incest. Your son Jaime has taken the black. When you die in a few moments, Casterly Rock will pass to Tyrion.”

_ “No.” _ He scoots forward on his knees, Cersei’s limp body dangling from his arms. “I have a brother, and he has trueborn sons. Let Casterly Rock pass to them.”

“No,” she tells him, unaffected. “Casterly Rock belongs to Tyrion...and you, my lord, belong to my dragons.”

“No--”

_ “Dracarys,” _ she sings, and flames fly from her dragons’ mouths, burning Tywin Lannister, Cersei Lannister, Euron Greyjoy, and the Mountain Who Rode.

Tom ends his song.

_ “And so he spoke, and so he spoke, _

_ That lord of Castamere, _

_ But now the rains weep o’er his hall _

_ With no one there to hear _

_ Yes, now the rains weep o’er his hall _

_ And not a soul to hear.” _


	95. NED X

They feast in Casterly Rock that night, toasting their victory over the ample provisions from the Rock’s cellar. 

It was an easy victory, and for that Ned cannot feel too victorious as he watches the men empty cup after cup, cheering loudly and laughing. The battle for Casterly Rock was only a taste of battle; the real war begins once they march north. 

_ They are the knights of summer, and winter is coming. _

Lyanna catches the look on his face.

“Something amiss, big brother?”

“No,” he says truthfully. Their losses were few, and their gains were immense. With Casterly Rock belonging to Daenerys’s Hand, who is now, coincidentally, the Warden of the West, the westermen will join the great army marching north. The Iron Islands and what’s left of the Iron Fleet now belong to Asha Greyjoy, who has sworn her allegiance to Daenerys. All Seven Kingdoms are united behind Daenerys now, and their strength will give them a fighting chance against the Army of the Dead.

“Then why do you look so unhappy? Is it Edric Dayne?”

The Lord of Starfall and Ned’s son by marriage had been grievously wounded in the battle, and Ned is shamed to say he did not see it happen. Poor Sansa nearly became a widow today.

The maesters say Edric will recover, but he will not be able to march north. As soon as he can travel, Ned plans to send him back to King’s Landing. It’s closer than Starfall, which is through the desert besides, and Edric will have the best care in the capital. It also has the added advantage of keeping Arya occupied; Ned fears that if he lets his daughter ride north with them, she’ll find a way to sneak past the Wall with them. If he asks her to look after Edric, however, she may be more inclined to stay. He knows they are friends, and perhaps taking this responsibility will lessen her anger at being left behind.

_ She’s as headstrong as Lyanna, and just as fierce, but I would keep them both safe in the south if I could. _

He shakes his head now, looking at his sister. “No. The maesters say he will recover. No, it’s only...this victory feels premature.”

“Because it was against the living and not the dead?” When he nods, Lyanna sighs. “Yes, I had that thought. But it will be good for the men, I do not doubt. They’re about to march to a frozen wasteland, where they’ll fight dead men and their unearthly overlords. Let them have their memories of the victory over Casterly Rock, where they defeated the Lannisters and drank Lord Tywin’s cellar dry.”

Ned gives her a small smile. “Perhaps you are right.”

“I’m  _ always _ right, big brother. Now drink up; it’s a long way to Winterfell.”

It  _ is _ a long way to Winterfell, made longer still by the mountains. The Gold Road will take them back to King’s Landing, lest they cut through swathes of land. Or they could pass by Golden Tooth and take the River Road to the Trident. Neither path is quick, but they had known that on the way here.

For what has to be the seventh time that evening, the minstrels strike up “The Rains of Castamere”, much to the crowd’s pleasure. They have delighted in hearing Tywin Lannister’s song played for them, but it only sickens Ned. Not that he had any love for Tywin, or his daughter or his dog, but it all seems so trivial to Ned now. Lannister or Targaryen, Stark or Baratheon, it matters little; they will all fight side by side soon, and the quarrels they once fought each other over will be nothing compared to the fight for their lives.

“It is too loud in here,” he complains to Lyanna, getting up. “I’m going to look in on Edric.”

“Very well.” Lyanna knows him well enough to know he does not want company. “I’ll see you in the morning, big brother.”

He takes his leave, slipping out the door and down a winding set of stairs to the room where Edric is recovering. Casterly Rock’s maester, a man named Creylen, tends to Edric himself. Not that there were any other significant injuries from the battle; only a few men had been buried, and most of the wounded have already been tended to.

The maester bows when Ned enters. “Lord Stark. Lord Dayne is doing well; his wounds will need time to heal, but his mind is sound and he has some appetite.”

“Good,” Ned says, relieved. He sees that Edric is awake, though lying still; he supposes his wounds will not let him sit up. “I will sit with him a while, maester.”

“As you will, Lord Stark.” Creylen bows again and leaves the room, shutting the door gently behind him.

Ned takes the seat beside Edric’s bed, scooting it close so Edric only has to turn his head to see him. “How do you feel?”

“Wretched,” Edric admits. “The maester dared not give me milk of the poppy for fear I would slip away in my sleep.”

“That was wise.” Ned is even more relieved to hear that; it would have been easy for the maester to let Edric die and claim it was his wounds, and no one would have suspected otherwise. It speaks to Creylen’s noble nature that he would care for the enemy of his former lord. “You have some appetite, he says?”

“I had some broth an hour or two ago. Only a few bites, but the maester said that was better than he expected.” Edric shifts, wincing. 

“I wish I had been there to protect you,” Ned admits. “I made a promise to Sansa that I would not let any harm come to you if it was within my power.”

Edric looks touched. “That is most kind of you, Lord Stark, but I assure you, my cousin planned this from the beginning.”

Ned furrows his brow. “Your cousin?”

“Did you not know? My cousin Gerold was the one who injured me.”

That surprises Ned. “He was here?”

“Was,” Edric confirms. “He was fighting with the Lannisters; I suppose he realized that no one else wanted him. He found me during the melee and tore me from my horse. ‘Dawn and Starfall are mine,’ he told me, and we fought. His blade cut deep, but before he could make the killing blow, Grey Wind leapt on him and tore out his throat.”

_ Good boy, _ Ned cannot help think. The wolves are prowling about somewhere outside, he knows; apparently Daenerys’s dragons have taken a liking to them. Ned will have to make sure they are all treated to good, red meat before they move north. 

“I’m glad he came to your rescue.”

“As am I,” Edric says fervently.

Ned clears his throat. “When you are well enough to travel, I am going to ask Creylen to move you to King’s Landing. It’s closer than Starfall, and easier to reach, and the best maesters can tend to you there. Arya is also there, and I know she would be glad of the company.”

“I would like that, my lord. And in truth, this battle has impressed upon me the importance of always having a direwolf around.”

Ned smiles. “Very good; I’ll tell Creylen. Is there anything I can get you?”

“I thank you my lord, but no; I will be content to sleep now.”

“Then sleep, and heal.” Ned rises and leaves his good-son. He will tell Sansa himself that her husband fought bravely. Perhaps an escort south can be arranged, so that she can tend to him in King’s Landing; he knows she would be glad of the opportunity.

Feeling better already, he makes for the maester’s tower. It’s a long walk, but Ned doesn’t mind; he relishes the time to think. Perhaps it would be better to send the whole family south; Winterfell is a good distance from the Wall, but even so, if any wights were to cross over, better to have his family as far out of harm’s way as possible. 

He’s in good spirits when he finally reaches Creylen’s tower. He’s glad to see the man awake, but his gladness fades when he sees Creylen’s pale face.

“What is it, maester?”

“A raven for you, my lord.”

Ned blinks. “For me?”

Creylen hands him the scroll. The broken seal is a direwolf, and the hand is Catelyn’s.

_ For the eyes of Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. _

_ My dearest Ned, we need you now more than ever. The dead have crossed over the Wall; your brother Benjen led a host of Night’s Watch south to warn the Northmen. I have ordered every village and holdfast emptied and all the people sent south. The children and I wait here; there is a storm on the horizon, and as Sansa is heavy with child, I do not dare risk her life or the babe’s until it has passed. We are well provisioned and have about two hundred men, but Benjen fears the dead have greater numbers. _

_ Hurry north, my love. _

_ Catelyn  _

“My lord?” Creylen asks softly.

“Thank you for showing this to me,” Ned says faintly. “I pray you will excuse me now.” He leaves, ears deaf to the maester calling after him.

_ The dead are coming to Winterfell. My wife, my children, my grandchild that has yet to be, all depend on me to come north. But north is so very far from here. _

When he reaches the base of the tower, he sees his sister and Lady Melisandre, both of them watching him with wide eyes.

“Ned?” Lyanna asks softly. “Melisandre saw a raven in her flames...is aught well?”

“No.” He swallows. “I need to leave. The dead have crossed over the Wall.”

Lyanna gasps. “How?”

“I don’t know, but they have, and they’re in the North. Benjen led a host of Night’s Watch south to Winterfell; he, Catelyn, and the children are trapped there as a storm looms on the horizon. Gods be good, they may already be dead.” His knees buckle, and both women reach out to catch him. All seems muffled and strange; he is aware of Lyanna talking to Melisandre, but he cannot hear the words. Gradually, the red woman lets go of him, and Lyanna takes all his weight as the priestess leaves them.

“Come on, big brother,” Lyanna says softly, helping him down the corridor to what must have once been a council chamber; a long table sits in the center, covered in maps and raven’s scrolls. Windows face the sea, as black as the night sky; the last of the ships finished smoldering some time ago, and those that were not burned have sunk.

Lyanna steers Ned to a chair, setting him down before she takes a candelabra from the corridor and lights the room. By the time the candles have been lit, Robb, Jon, Daenerys, Edmure, Theon, Asha, and Melisandre have joined them, closing the door for privacy.

“Father, what is it?” Robb asks, concerned.

Ned cannot bring himself to speak; he hands Robb the scroll, letting him read aloud to the others. 

Their faces grow pale, exchanging looks as they do not speak the truth he already knows: Winterfell is doomed.

“Winterfell is a long way from here, is it not?” Daenerys asks, glancing at Jon.

He nods gravely. “It is; in summer, it may take two weeks if we were to ride hard, but in winter…”

“By the time we reach Winterfell, they will all be dead,” Edmure declares, looking more afraid than Ned can ever remember seeing him.

“By land,” Asha corrects. “But it will take less than two weeks by sea.”

“Is that safe?” Robb asks dubiously. “The winter seas are treacherous.”

“For greenlanders, maybe, but not for ironborn. My ships can take men north; we’ll pass the Iron Islands, which even the greenest ironborn can handle during the heart of winter.” She goes to the table, shuffling for a map; Ned gets to his feet, joining the others as they gather around the ruler of the Iron Islands. “Look,” she says, pointing to a map of the west coast. She drags her finger from Casterly Rock to Blazewater Bay. “It’s not far by sea.”

“To Moat Cailin, aye,” Lyanna agrees. “But still nearly three hundred miles from Moat Cailin to Winterfell.”

“Still faster than riding,” Jon points out. “Asha, is there a way you could sail upriver?”

“My ships were not made for rivers, and they will likely be frozen over anyway.” She heaves a deep breath. “And I cannot take the whole army, or even half of it. I don’t have many ships, and most of Euron’s were destroyed.”

Ned could tear out his hair. Only a fraction of their army can get to Winterfell, if that’s even fast enough, and who knows what good that will do?

“Lord Stark,” Theon speaks up. “Asha can carry, what, two hundred men?” At her nod, he turns back to Ned. “We can escort Winterfell’s household south to safety, or help them hold off the dead if they are close. It may serve until the greater part of the army can join us.”

_ May, _ Ned thinks grimly...but it is as good an idea as any. 

“How soon can we leave?” he asks Asha.

“Tonight,” she tells him without hesitation. “Give me two hours to round up my men and prepare my fastest ships. I can have the rest of my fleet carry more men north behind us.”

“Do it,” Daenerys urges. “I will send as many Unsullied as your ships can carry. Jon and I will fly the dragons north and meet you at Winterfell.”

“Dany,” Jon says in a warning voice, but she gives him a silencing look. 

“The rest of the army will march on the morrow, and make all haste for the North. I’ll have the maester write to Lord Tyrion to make provisions for refugees.”

There are more words exchanged, but Ned hardly hears them. Even with a strong wind in their sails, even with a clear road to Winterfell...what if they don’t make it in time?


	96. CATELYN VIII

The storm rages for a month. 

Catelyn’s never seen anything like it, and she’s lived in the North for twenty years now. Every day the storm seems to get worse, even though that doesn’t seem possible. The winds howl, the snows fall, and every day Catelyn grows more afraid. 

They have to change the watch out regularly; it’s so cold outside that they’ve found a few men frozen to death. Some of them weren’t even on watch; when the snow comes down hard, you can get lost walking outside, even if it’s just a few feet. They string up sturdy ropes going from doorway to doorway so that no one else gets lost. The livestock is brought into the great hall to keep them warm; Catelyn has stopped eating in it because it smells so bad. 

She had hoped the storm would pass and they could leave, but two weeks pass before she realizes the storm is here to stay. 

“Has it ever been like this?” she asks Benjen.

He shakes his head. “Never. Even at Castle Black, the snow doesn’t come down this hard.”

“It’s the white walkers,” Rickon insists whenever anyone will listen. “They’re doing this.”

“Is it the white walkers bringing the storm?” Bran wonders. “Or is the storm bringing the white walkers?”

It’s a good question, and one Catelyn doesn’t have an answer to. The two do seem linked; the Long Night was the worst winter man has ever seen, if the stories can be believed, and that was the last time the white walkers struck.

_ What if the storm only gets worse? _ she wonders.  _ What if it never gets any better? _

They should have left when they had the chance. The storm had been fierce, but it seems mild now compared to what’s happened since. She had not wanted Sansa to lose the baby, but now she fears her grandchild will never be born; if they do not attempt to ride through the storm, which will surely kill them all, the Army of the Dead will descend on them and kill them where they stand. 

_ Unless Ned gets here first. _

Ravens fly fast, she knows, but Maester Luwin had sent out the bird just ahead of the storm. The storm may have caught up with it, or it may have gone astray. What if Ned doesn’t even make it to Casterly Rock? What if no one gets the raven, and they’re left here to die?

_ He will not leave us to die. He will come for us. Somehow or other. _

She is not the only one struggling with their captivity. Everyone is locked together in the keep, and tempers are rising high as the snowdrifts. Wildlings and men of the Night’s Watch keep breaking out in fights, and Catelyn even finds Bran and Rickon scuffling, fed up with each other’s company. 

“Boys!” she tells them sternly. “What would your father say if he was here?”

“The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives,” they drone at the same time.

“Our pack isn’t all here, though,” Rickon points out. “They’re in the south.”

“Then we must make do with each other,” she tells him. Her voice softens. “Boys, please. The dead could be here any day now. Is this how you want to spend your time together? Fighting each other?”

They have the good grace to look ashamed.

“We’re sorry, Mother,” they mumble.

She draws her arms around them, holding them close. “You are both so strong, and your sister and I need you to look after us.” 

“We will,” Bran promises. “I’ve been practicing my archery in the Broken Tower; I won’t let them hurt you or Sansa.”

“Or her baby,” Rickon adds helpfully.

“Yes...or her baby,” Catelyn repeats. It will be a miracle if any of them survive, but especially the baby. It’s not due for another month or so; they may all be corpses themselves by then.

Though the wind and snow buffets them terribly, though they nearly get lost and give up, Catelyn and Septa Mordane wind their way to the small sept that night to pray with Septon Chayle. Though the old gods rule here, and though Catelyn has seen the evidence to believe Melisandre’s Red God is real, she was named in the Light of the Seven, and in times of darkness, she turns to them now.

“May the Father protect his children,” Septon Chayle calls, his voice filling the small room. “May the Mother grant us mercy. May the Warrior grant us courage. May the Smith grant us strength. May the Maiden watch over the innocent. May the Crone lift her lamp to guide us through the Long Night to come. And if the Stranger comes for us, may he come swiftly and without pain or fear.”

_ And may he burn our bodies, so we do not become footsoldiers in the Army of the Dead. _

.

The sun does not rise in the morning. 

It’s been rising later each day and setting earlier each afternoon, but on this day, it does not appear at all. It’s dark from dawn until dusk, and somehow, Catelyn knows that bodes ill.

“Is it the Long Night for true?” Rickon asks when she sends him to bed.

Catelyn swallows. “I think it may be.”

.

At dawn, or what should be dawn, Catelyn wakes when Bran and Rickon shake her from her slumber.

“They’re outside,” Rickon says plaintively.

She blinks away the last dregs of sleep. “Who’s outside?” 

“The dead.”

She does wake fully at that, sitting up with wide eyes. “You saw them?”

“In our dream,” Bran agrees. “They’ll be here any moment. Sansa saw the same thing in her dream.”

Catelyn trusts her children’s greensight; she climbs out of bed, reaching for a warm woollen dress. “Go wake your Uncle Benjen and tell him what you’ve told me.”

“Yes, Mother.” 

The boys trot out of her room; she dresses quickly, tugging on layers and lacing up her boots. Prepared for the cold, she leaves her room, hands trembling ever so slightly.

Sansa is standing in the doorway to her room, her face white. “Mother…”

“It will be alright,” Catelyn lies. “Stay in your room, and keep Lady with you.”

A door at the end of the corridor slams open, and as feet pound the flagstones, Catelyn tenses, sure she is seeing a wight...but the figure passes beneath the torchlight and she sees it is only Jeyne.

“Lady Stark!” the girl gasps. “Outside...the dead…”

“Are here, yes. Stay with Sansa.”

Jeyne does as she’s told, she and Sansa clutching each other as Catelyn makes her way out to the ramparts.

Benjen and most of the men are already out there, she’s relieved to see. Bran and Rickon stand beside him, with Osha the spearwife close by. 

“Boys, get inside,” she orders. 

Bran holds his ground. “You said Rickon and I had to protect you and Sansa. That’s what we’re going to do.”

_ He has bagged me neat as a hare in a snare, _ she thinks bitterly. 

“You should be with the archers,” Benjen tells him. “Up high, where you can see everything.”

Her shoulders sag in relief, for she knows what Benjen is doing. Bran will be safer up high, shooting with his bow. 

“I’ll take you to them,” offers Ser Jaime Lannister. In truth, Catelyn does not like the man, but they are all on the same side now. She watches as he puts a hand on her son’s shoulder, steering him away.

Now for Rickon, who is already giving her a stubborn look.

“I won’t go,” he says before she can say anything. “I can fight, Mother.”

“He can,” Osha says politely, resting a hand on his shoulder. “I’ve sparred with him. He’s as fierce as that wolf of his.”

Catelyn looks between the spearwife and her son before blowing out a breath. “Alright. But stay close to Osha and Shaggydog, do you understand?”

“Yes, Mother.” 

She turns to Osha. “He is my youngest son. Please...keep him safe.”

“I will, Lady Stark,” Osha promises. “I’ll bring him inside if the fighting goes ill.”

That relieves Catelyn. “Thank you, Osha.” She hugs her son, her heart tearing when he pulls away. Osha tousles his hair, leading him away--higher up, Catelyn hopes, and farther from the fighting.

Benjen gives her a pitying look. “You should go inside, Cat.”

“Soon,” she promises. “I want to see our enemy before I do.”

“Not sure if you will in all this,” Benjen admits. “But I’ll show you what I can.” 

She follows him to the outer wall, clasping her gloved hands together so that no one will see them tremble. She passes wildlings and black brothers, though she can’t tell who is who; everyone is so covered in snow and ice that they look the same. 

The men make way for her and Benjen; he stands at the crenellations and points out. “Through the snow. Do you see?”

She doesn’t at first. The snow is blowing so fiercely and coming down so hard that all she can see is snow and ice. 

But then she realizes that it’s not just snow she sees. There are figures moving, only she didn’t realize they were creatures because their movements are so inhuman. She sees men, women, and children in varying states of decay, some with their flesh still white and firm, some with brown, rotting skin hanging from brown, rotting bones. All of them, however, have the same piercing blue eyes, and all of those eyes are trained on her. 

“Gods be good,” she murmurs, stepping back.

“They are cunning, Cat,” Benjen warns her. “More than they look. They will do whatever it takes to get inside these walls and make every man, woman, and child a soldier in their army. You must shelter those who cannot fight.”

“Yes,” she says faintly. “I will.” Catelyn walks as quickly as she dares without breaking into a run, holding her head high and trying to seem unafraid should the men look to her.

Vayon Poole and Maester Luwin are standing in the turret door when she comes in from outside; when she takes down her hood, snow splats on the ground behind her. 

“Poole,” she says in her most no-nonsense tone, “I want the castle secured to the best of our abilities. Have everyone shelter in the Great Keep; bar the doors and windows, if you can.”

“Yes, my lady,” Poole says without hesitation, rushing off to do so. 

Maester Luwin follows Catelyn down the turret’s winding stairs.

“There are men lining the ramparts of Winterfell; it will be difficult for wights to get in,” he reports, his chain clinking with each step. “Yet we cannot see their numbers, and if I may speak bluntly, my lady, I do not think we can sustain a prolonged attack.”

“Nor do I, but we must try.”

“It will be difficult,” he continues. “The snow is falling too hard for fire to be of much use; thankfully, the Night’s Watch brought a fair number of obsidian weapons with them. Even so, it will not be enough to bar the Great Keep.”

“What would you suggest?” she asks, not unkindly. 

He takes a deep breath. “Escape, my lady.”

She turns to look at him, frowning. “You know that is impossible.”

“I do not believe it is,” he says gently. “There are a few routes one could take. Perhaps the fighting men can distract the dead long enough for you to leave with your children, unnoticed by the enemy. Once you are gone, they can beat a hasty retreat to Cerwyn, or as far south as Moat Cailin or White Harbor, should the storm allow.”

“You want me to abandon the men fighting to defend my family?”

“I do not want anyone to die in vain,” he tells her in that same gentle tone. “The storm is raging, yes, but if we remain here with only two hundred men defending us, we  _ will _ die before the day is over.”

Angry tears prick her eyes. “I had hoped he would come,” she finds herself sobbing. 

The maester gathers her in his arms, patting her back as she weeps into his coarse robes.

“I was so sure he would come,” she continues, unable to stop the flow now that the dam has burst. “He has never let me down, ever.” Her shoulders shake with the force of her tears. “I should have left once the Winter Town was evacuated, I should have taken my children and ran…”

“You had no idea the storm would last this long,” he soothes. “No one can fault you for that, my lady.” He pats her back for another moment before gently gripping her arms and pulling her back. “You must be strong now, Lady Stark; stronger than you have ever been. There will be time for tears later, if all goes well.”

She nods, wiping the tears from her eyes. He’s right. Of course he’s right. She can do this. She is a Stark, and winter has come. “Yes. You’re right. What did you have in mind, maester? In terms of escaping the castle?”

“Let me show you.” Together, they walk to the base of the tower, where he pulls open the door and points through the snow. “The dead seem to be concentrated to the north and east. If the men can distract the wights away from the Hunter’s Gate or the South Gate, we may be able to leave that way. Of course, opening a gate may draw attention; I think our best bet would be to jump.”

“To  _ jump? _ ”

“The snowdrifts are higher in some places than others,” he explains. “It would not be a hard fall.”

She bites her lip, considering. “Perhaps...but I fear any fall will be bad for Sansa.”

He nods. “There is that concern. And taking a gate would mean we could flee on horseback, which would give us an advantage.”

Catelyn considers. “Will the horses make it through the snow?”

“Not far, but farther than if we were to go on foot.”

She considers this, too. “Cerwyn is only half a day’s ride from here.”

“Much longer than that in this storm.”

“Yes...but we can make it a few days.”

“True,” he allows. “But Cerwyn is not as well-built nor defended as Winterfell. We would be exchanging one danger for another.”

He’s right again, of course. They’re safer behind the walls of Winterfell, even if those walls aren’t doing much.

A cloaked figure comes running towards them from the Great Keep, treading over the snow that has drifted in through the windows and doors.

“My lady!” 

It is Jeyne Poole again, cheeks flushed as she comes closer. 

“Lady Stark, Maester Luwin, Sansa’s time is upon her.”

Catelyn sways on her feet. “No.”

But Jeyne nods, eyes wide. “Septa Mordane is with her. Her water has already come, and she has great pains in her belly.”

_ No. No, it isn’t time yet, no, why did you have to have your child now, of all times? _

Poor Sansa. Poor, sweet, gentle Sansa, who only wanted to marry a handsome, brave young lord, be his sweet lady, and bear his fine children.  _ She will never have those things now. _

Anger takes her at that. No. Of course Sansa will have those things. She has always been a good child, a sweet girl. She doesn’t deserve this. She deserves to live in Starfall with Edric and their children, for Catelyn intends she shall have lots of them. 

_ I am not a warrior, but I know the battles of the birthing bed well. _

“Then let us not waste another moment,” she decides, marching for Sansa’s room. Jeyne and Maester Luwin trip to keep up, robes snapping in the wind. 

Sansa is still in her nightgown, her eyes and face red as she looks up at her mother. She’s sitting in the middle of the floor, Septa Mordane flitting around behind her. Catelyn kneels in front of her daughter, peering into her eyes.

“I’m not ready,” Sansa cries.

“No new mother ever is,” Catelyn tells her. “But your child is coming, and no force on this earth can stop that now.”

Sansa bursts into fresh tears, but Catelyn takes her chin and forces her daughter to look at her. “I know you are afraid. I was afraid when I gave birth to Robb, and I was far from the fighting then and in my ninth month. I cannot imagine the fear you have now. But I promise you, Sansa, we  _ will _ get through this. I have birthed five children of my own, and Maester Luwin has been there for each one; he’s been at the birth of many other babies besides. You are in good hands, sweetling.”

Sansa keeps crying, though. “I’m so afraid. I want Edric. I want Father.”

“They are coming,” Catelyn tells her, hoping it is not a lie. “Be brave now, my darling, and when you see Edric and your father again, you will have a handsome baby to show them.”

Sansa does not look reassured, but then Lady slinks towards her, licking the tears from her cheeks, and Sansa looks heartened. She nods.

Catelyn takes off her cloak and gloves and rolls up her sleeves. It’s not going to be easy, but by the old gods and new, she will deliver her grandchild if that’s the last thing she does.


	97. BENJEN VIII

Their father had always said five hundred men could hold Winterfell against ten thousand. But can two hundred men hold Winterfell against the gods know how many wights?

The snow falls in thick, fat flakes; not just soft powdery snow, either, but hard, icy clumps. Benjen does not know if it is possible for white walkers to control the weather, but he would believe it less than an hour into the battle. The men can’t see more than five feet in front of them, and none of them have any idea how many wights it is they’re fighting; it could be a hundred, or it could be ten thousand. All Benjen knows is that whenever one falls, two more seem to sprout up in its place.

Luckily, while the snowdrifts are high, they are also unstable, and the wights that keep climbing up keep toppling down. The walls are slick with ice, too, so most of them can’t get a good footing to climb.

That being said, the wights are cunning. Sometimes they use one another as ladders, climbing up skeletons to reach the ramparts. Most of them are shot down or kicked back, but every now and then, one or two of them will make it over the crenellations, and then they have to kill that one as well as the ones that helped it climb up.

Benjen grows weary before long. It’s only morning, he knows, but the sky is so dark that it feels like the hour of the wolf. His bed and Jaime’s warmth become distant memories before midday. 

Jaime stays close to him, cutting down wights whenever they get close. Whenever the wind and snow let up, even if it’s only for a moment, they signal the archers to shoot flaming arrows. Bran is among them, looking proud as he takes down corpse after corpse. 

Rickon and the spearwife have long since disappeared to what Benjen assumes is a safer spot. Even so, he worries about his youngest nephew. Bran is safe up in the tower, but Rickon is closer to the fray and younger besides. At least he has his wolf, that savage beast that sets even Benjen’s teeth on edge. 

He sets Hot Pie and Lommy as his runners, to pass commands from one tower to the next. It is from them that he learns his niece is in labor.

_ Of all the times to have a baby, _ he thinks madly, followed by,  _ Ned will kill me if I let anything happen to his first grandchild. _

The snow is still coming down hours later, all of them aching and exhausted, but Benjen realizes that the snow is thinning. He falls back against the crenellations, face tipped up to the skies to confirm what he is seeing. 

_ Yes. _

“Stark!” Jaime bellows, kicking a wight in the chest and sending it screeching back to the ground. “What in seven hells are you doing?!”

He points. “The snow. It’s not coming down as hard.”

Jaime looks up. “So?”

“So, the flames, you idiot.” Benjen looks for Lommy or Hot Pie and sees both lingering by the turret. He waves them over, leaning on their shoulders as he tries to form words. “Wood. Braziers. Furniture. Find whatever you can. Poole and Hodor will help you. Need to build a fire on the outer walls.”

The two lads exchange dubious looks.

“Now!” he barks, and they scamper down the turret stairs to find the steward.

It takes the better part of an hour for every man that can be spared to gather enough cloth and firewood to build a great fire. By then the snow has blissfully thinned into nothing, and when they light a fire on the outer walls, it roars to life. 

The wights shriek, unable to get past the fire. It’s thicker in some places than others, but the archers send flaming arrows to the weak spots, discouraging the wights from trying again.

Exhausted and relieved, the men who have not already evacuated the outer walls do so, hopping over to the inner walls or climbing down stairs to take new posts. 

Benjen sinks to the ground when they reach the covered walkway leading to the Great Keep. His whole body aches, and he prays this small rest will not sap him of his strength. 

“Lommy, Hot Pie,” he rasps. Hot Pie is there in an instant with a waterskin, from which Benjen drinks deeply. He wipes his mouth, looking up at the two boys. “Bring Lady Stark to me.”

They exchange looks again. 

“But...she’s in the birthing room,” Lommy says, as if Benjen might not know this.

“I am aware of that, lad. It is urgent I speak to her. Now.”

“Go,” Jaime adds with a steely note, and Lommy scarpers into the Great Keep.

“Hot Pie, find my nephews, if you would.”

Bran and Rickon find him before Catelyn does, each boy accompanied by their wolves and a wildling woman; Rickon with the spearwife called Osha, and Bran with a redhead Benjen suspects is Tormund Giantsbane’s whelp.

“What’s happening?” Rickon asks, eyes wide.

“Needed a rest,” Benjen tells him.

“What’s happening with the battle?” Bran wants to know. “Why did you make us leave?”

“Because this battle can’t go on forever. I need to speak with your mother about getting us out of here. Your sister is giving birth, you know.”

Both boys look stunned.

“Mother said the baby would be here in a month,” Bran says.

“The babe is coming now.”

The boys have questions, none of which Benjen is equipped to answer; he’s flooded with relief when he sees his good-sister at last. Bran and Rickon run to her, piling their questions on her.

“She’s still laboring,” she says wearily, an arm around each boy’s shoulders. “It may be some hours yet.”

That is as Benjen feared. 

“Forgive me for not rising,” he grunts when Catelyn comes towards him. “But I don’t think I can.”

“You have earned a rest.” She kneels before him. “I saw the fire. That must be in our favor…?”

“It is,” he agrees. “But it will not hold forever. If the storm should pick up again, or if they should find a way past the flames…”

Catelyn clears her throat. “Maester Luwin suggested escaping while they are distracted...but we cannot escape until Sansa is delivered, and fleeing may go ill for her and the child. The babe is already being born a month early.”

The likelihood of the babe surviving is slim, but Benjen knows that he cannot give up on the babe’s life, not yet. 

“Perhaps,” Jaime says slowly, “we could...reverse-distract them.”

Catelyn raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” He begins to pace, rubbing his chin in thought. “They don’t know that Lady Sansa is giving birth inside. If they thought all of Winterfell’s inhabitants fled…”

“...they’d follow,” she finishes, eyes widening. 

Benjen considers this. “Where would we go?”

“I don’t know,” Jaime admits. “What’s the closest holdfast?”

“Cerwyn. With the snow, it’s a full day’s ride at least.”

“The dead don’t tire,” Jaime points out. “They will chase us all that way. It could be enough time for Lady Sansa to birth her babe.”

“But what about after that?” Bran asks. “Winterfell will be undefended if anymore wights should come, or if the same wights double back for some reason. And the men would be trapped in Cerwyn.”

He’s right...but Benjen thinks they may have more luck leading the wights away from Winterfell. “I say we lead them away. Some of our men can stay here, and when Sansa and the baby are ready, they can be taken west to Deepwood Motte. From there, a ship can take the women and children to Bear Island.”

Catelyn looks approving of this plan. “I say we do it.”

“It is a good plan,” Bran agrees, “but how are you going to get out of Winterfell?”

That, Benjen has not considered. The obvious way is through a gate, but the wights would be on them in a heartbeat, and they could get in that way, too. 

“The crypts,” Rickon says plainly.

Everyone stares at him.

“The crypts?” Catelyn asks, uncomprehending.

Rickon flushes. “Well...you can get in and out of the castle through the crypts. I...did it a few times.”

“Rickon!”

“This isn’t the time,” Benjen speaks over his good-sister, excited. “Can you show us, Rickon?”

The boy nods, getting to his feet. 

It’s a long walk to the crypts through the snow, but the fire on the outer walls is holding well, and the men posted on the inner wall don’t seem troubled. The crypt door is frozen shut when they find it; Lommy and Hot Pie have to fetch boiling water from the springs to loosen the hinges, and even then, they have to send for Hodor to pry open the great door.

The redheaded woman who came with Bran looks mistrustful. “What if the dead in the crypts come to life?”

“They might,” Benjen admits. “But only the white walkers can raise the dead, and the white walkers are on the other side of the Wall.” 

Sure enough, when they finally do wrench aside the door, the crypts are as still and quiet as they’ve always been. Even so, Benjen leads the way with his sword in one hand and a torch in the other, taking care as they walk down the rows of lords and kings long since gone.

Rickon and Shaggydog soon push ahead, boy and wolf knowing the way better than Benjen. He lets them lead the group past the old Kings of Winter, until finally, they reach--

“This will take you out between the North Gate and the Broken Tower,” Rickon explains, pointing up the sloping passageway. 

The North Gate. Not an ideal escape route; it means having to circle around Winterfell to get south to Cerwyn, and the passageway means they can’t go on horse. 

“We could go through the Wolfswood,” Benjen thinks aloud. “Maybe instead of south to Cerwyn, we lead them west to Torrhen’s Square.”

“Too long on foot,” Catelyn protests. “They’ll kill you.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

“Send men out the crypts,” says the redheaded wildling. “Set a fire in the Wolfswood--a campfire, like, while all goes quiet in the castle. The wights will think we escaped. The rest of the men ride out the gates and head south. Make some noise to draw the wights south while the men in the Wolfswood sneak back into the castle. When the time comes, they take the ones who can’t fight to this Deepwood Motte.”

It’s a good plan; the best they have yet, in fact. “Who are you?” Benjen asks.

She gives him a toothy grin. “Ygritte.”

“Ygritte, you’re cleverer than all of us put together. Are you bold enough to lead the men into the Wolfswood?”

“Oh, aye, Lord Crow.”

“Then choose your men and do it.” Benjen turns to his nephews. “You’ll stay here with your mother and sister, and keep them safe while we draw the wights away. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Uncle Benjen.”

“Good.” He looks up at Catelyn, whose face is unreadable. 

“This is quite an undertaking,” she says at last.

“I swore an oath, Cat. This is my duty.”

She bows her head. “Very well. I’ll tend to Sansa.”

“You may need to keep her quiet until the wights are gone,” he warns her.

“No mean feat,” she says wryly. “But I suppose you are right.” She and the others leave the crypts until it’s only Benjen and Jaime left.

“This could go very well or very poorly,” Jaime says unhelpfully.

“I know it.”

Jaime fists his hand in Benjen’s cloak, dragging him closer for a kiss. “Don’t die on me, Stark.”

“I can’t make any promises.”

“Promise,” Jaime insists.

Benjen gives him an exasperated sort of smile. “I promise I will try not to die.”

“Good enough.” 


	98. BRAN IV

Twenty of them slip through the crypts, silent as shadows: Bran, Rickon, Osha, the wildling woman Ygritte, and sixteen wildlings Bran doesn’t know. It had been decided that the wildlings were the better choice; their furs blend in with the snow, whereas a brother of the Night’s Watch all in black might draw attention. Bran doesn’t know if the wights can see colors the way people can, but none of them had been willing to risk it.

Uncle Benjen is meant to be distracting the wights now, but they have no way of knowing if he’s successful. All they can do is trust. 

The door, or something like it, at the end of the sloping passageway opens out, but it takes the effort of several wildlings to push it back, so covered in snow is it. 

Summer and Shaggydog prove to be useful here; Bran had hesitated to let them come, but the wolves dig a tunnel through the snow faster than any human could. 

Bran doesn’t know how, but sometimes he can slip into Summer’s body; he does this now, using the wolf’s eyes to peer out of the snow tunnel. There are wights in the distance, but something has their attention by the East Gate, so Uncle Benjen’s distraction must be working.

“It’s safe,” Bran says, slipping back into his body.

Osha frowns. “How d’you know that?”

“He’s a warg,” Ygritte declares. “Didn’t you see his eyes?” 

Bran blinks. “I’m not a--”

“It doesn’t matter,” Osha says firmly. “We’ve got a job to do.” She climbs out the tunnel, her spear at the ready. Bran follows, an arrow nocked, and Rickon behind him, but there is no danger when they slip out. Even so, they stick to the walls as they wait for the others to emerge; this done, they make a run for the Wolfswood, keeping low to the ground and moving in pairs. Osha keeps Rickon tucked close to her side, and Bran has found himself partnered with Ygritte. 

He likes the wildling woman. She’s bold and brazen, she’s the best archer he’s ever seen, and she doesn’t treat him like a child. She keeps her red hair hidden beneath her hood, but even so, a few stray curls bounce free from their restraints as they pass into the shadow of the Wolfswood.

Quickly and as quietly as they are able, they find loose and fallen branches, piling them together to make a fire. Ygritte and Rickon build snowmen to make it look like people, and then all but two of them climb up into the trees, hiding in the branches. 

The two on the ground get a fire going, fanning the flames until it’s big and roaring. Then they scamper up the trees after the others.

It takes a long time; nearly an hour, by Bran’s count. His fingers and legs grow stiff and cramped, but he keeps an arrow nocked, just in case.

At last, the wights pour into the glen, snarling and snapping...but they stop short when they realize the figures they see around the fire are snowmen. Bran can hear their confused hissing, the irritated snapping of their jaws. It’s almost like they’re speaking...but somehow, he gets the feeling that they aren’t speaking to each other. They’re speaking to someone or something he can’t see.

_ The Great Other, _ he thinks. Uncle Benjen had said that the Great Other controls them; what if he can communicate with them from even beyond the Wall?

Bran doesn’t hear it himself, but he knows when the Night’s Watch ride out the gates, because the wights turn as one, ice-blue eyes pointed at Winterfell. With a collective snarl, the wights tear off towards the castle, where Bran hopes they follow the Night’s Watch south to Cerwyn. He hopes, too, that Cerwyn will be able to hold against the wights, at least until help comes.

_ If it ever does. _

Just in case, he slips into Summer’s body, treading after the wights. His wolf eyes see them run towards the castle and then past it, disappearing into the sea of snow.

He slips back into his own body, nodding. “They’re gone.”

They climb down from their roosts, stiff-legged but determined to run. Summer and Shaggydog rejoin them at the castle, where they climb back in through the crypts. 

Bran feels a rush of elation.  _ They did it. _ The wights are gone, and now Sansa can have her baby, and when she and the baby are strong enough, they can go to Deepwood Motte, find a ship, and sail for Bear Island. The younger Mormonts will welcome them to their home, and they can wait out the war on an island far from death.

He’s just seen the light at the other end of the crypt when the stone crumbles beside him. 

He stares at it for a long moment, uncomprehending, wondering why the stone is moving. Summer and Shaggydog begin growling, the hair on their backs standing up straight.

“The crypt,” Ygritte says, and then curses. “The crypt! The dead, they’re rising!”

Bran’s heart pounds so hard he thinks it’s going to burst. Ygritte and Osha grab him and Rickon, pulling the boys towards the exit. Bran’s feet are slow and sluggish, but when the first wight bursts free from its vault, knocking over the wildling right behind him, he kicks himself into a run, feet pounding against the stone as they make for the door.

More wights burst through the stone, hissing and reaching for them. One catches Bran’s arm; Summer bites off the wight’s hand at the wrist while Ygritte pushes Bran in front of her. 

When they finally stumble out of the crypt, a handful of wights follow them. Bran and Ygritte take them down with obsidian arrowheads while Osha slams the heavy door on their pursuers. 

“The others!” Rickon shouts. “There are still living people in there!”

“If we wait for them, we’ll only let in more wights,” Osha says firmly. 

Bran’s stomach twists. “But we could help them--”

“How many dead Starks are in there?” Osha asks sharply. 

He hesitates. 

“How many?”

“Hundreds,” he admits at last. “Maybe even thousands. Every King of Winter and Lord of Winterfell and their families for the last eight thousand years.”

Osha nods. “Thousands. And you know how many of our people we left in there?”

“Sixteen.”

“And how many of us are in this yard, all that stands between them and your family?”

An angry flush creeps up his neck. “Four. I know.”

Osha’s voice softens. “You’re a good lad, to worry for those we left behind. But leaving the door open for them would mean leaving the door open for those thousands of wights to come through, and none of us could hold them back then.”

He looks at his feet. “I understand.” And he does. She’s right. For every living person they let through, there would be ten or twenty wights at least. The whole point of this was to save his family.

And speaking of his family…

Satisfied that the heavy crypt door will keep (at least for a while), the Starks, spearwives, and wolves move to the Great Keep. It’s eerily quiet inside; when he slips inside Summer, he can smell people hiding behind closed doors. He doesn’t stir them; if any stray wights make their way into the keep, he doesn’t want anyone getting hurt on his account.

Sansa’s room is quiet, too, until Bran raps softly on the door and whisper-shouts, “It’s Bran!”

There’s a beat before Jeyne Poole opens the door, ushering them inside.

Sansa is on her hands and knees on the floor, her screams muffled by a pillow Septa Mordane is holding. When Sansa looks up, Bran sees her red and sweaty face, her pretty auburn hair plastered to her forehead. She looks, if he’s being quite honest, terrible, but fierce and brave, too. He feels oddly proud of her.

“Has the baby come?” Rickon asks.

“Not yet.” Mother kneels beside Sansa, rubbing her back and tucking the hair away from her face. “But soon, I think.” She looks up at her sons and the spearwives. “Did it work?”

“Yes. The wights followed the men south to Cerwyn.” 

“The bodies in the crypts rose, though,” Rickon adds.

Mother looks at him sharply. “They what?!”

“While we were coming back,” Bran tells her. “They woke, or rose, or...whatever it is they do. We closed the door on them, but…” 

Mother gives a sharp nod. “Then we had best keep a close eye on the keep. Everyone should keeping laying low; perhaps if we’re quiet, even if the wights do break out of the crypt, they’ll assume we’ve left.”

“The babe won’t be quiet,” Maester Luwin warns. “It’s one thing for Sansa to scream into a pillow, but quite another for a newborn babe to take its first breaths.”

“We will cross that bridge when we get to it,” Mother says firmly. “Can you keep an eye on the castle?”

“Yes, Mother.” Bran is almost glad of the excuse to leave--as proud as he is of Sansa, as worried as he is for her, he feels strange being in the room while she gives birth. He can shoot an arrow and slip into a direwolf’s skin, but he cannot help his sister birth her baby. 

He, Rickon, Osha, Ygritte, Summer, and Shaggydog leave Sansa’s room, closing the door quietly behind them.

“Keep an eye on the castle,” Osha repeats. “How?”

If it wasn’t so icy and snowy, Bran would say climbing was the best way. But the next best thing is being in the highest point at Winterfell.

“Father’s solar,” he suddenly remembers. “You can see the whole of Winterfell from there; it’s a round room, so you can see every direction.”

“That’ll do nicely,” Osha says with an approving nod.

“Might not be a bad idea to send the wolves out in the yard,” Ygritte suggests. “You can do that nice trick if you need to see what’s going on below.”

Bran hesitates. “Well...I suppose.” His mind touches Summer’s for a brief moment; the wolf almost gives a nod before loping down the corridor, Shaggydog padding along beside him. 

Bran leads the humans up the winding steps to Father’s solar, where they open all the windows in the round room to look outside. Winterfell is snowy and barren; there’s no sign, even from here, of the wights in the crypts. The fires are still burning on the outer walls, but not as heartily as they were before. The snow and wind have made them smaller, and if it picks up anymore, the fires will die down completely. Maybe that’s for the best; as long as the castle looks abandoned, the wights will hopefully leave them alone.

On a whim, Bran reaches out for Summer. He sees the empty yard through the wolf’s eyes, hears scratching behind the crypt door and the howling of wind and crackling of flame. He can smell the fires burning, and little else. 

When Bran comes back into the solar, the others are watching him. 

“What?” he asks self-consciously.

“You’re a warg,” Ygritte informs him. “I’ve been around enough of ‘em to know.”

“I’m not,” he protests. “I just...I can just see things through Summer’s eyes sometimes.”

“That’s warging,” Osha tells him gently. “Those wolves of yours bonded with you the moment you picked them and named them. They took on your personalities. Look at Shaggydog and Lady if you don’t believe me.”

It’s true that Shaggydog and Rickon are equally wild--Rickon has grown tamer over the years, and so has Shaggydog, but both are prone to fits of rage. And Lady is a direwolf born in the same litter as Shaggydog and the others, but she’s as prim and proper as Sansa. Nymeria is more playful than her littermates, just as Arya is, and Grey Wind is usually more reserved, like Robb. Even Ghost is like Jon, the odd one out, quiet and shy yet loving all the same.

And Summer…

Summer is half of Bran’s soul. Ever since Robb placed him in his arms, Bran knew the wolf was special. Not just a pet, not like a dog, but a true friend and companion. It’s why he struggled for so long to find a name for the wolf, and the name he ended up choosing came to him in a dream...almost as if the wolf had chosen it himself. They understand each other; Bran almost always knows what Summer is thinking, and sometimes it feels as if the direwolf can hear his thoughts, too. 

“Can I warg?” Rickon asks.

“Have you ever tried?” Ygritte returns.

“No. How do you try?”

“Ask your brother.”

But Bran shrugs. “I didn’t even know I was doing it. It’s like I...I don’t know. Like I’m reaching out for him, but with my thoughts. And when my thoughts find his, I go inside.”

“Inside?”

“I don’t know how to explain it better. It just...happens.”

Rickon screws his face in concentration, but nothing seems to happen. “Am I doing it?”

“How would I know?”

“Your eyes go all white when you do it.”

Bran didn’t know that. “Oh. Well, no, you’re not doing it, I suppose.”

As they take positions around the room, Rickon keeps trying to warg into Shaggydog, but Bran quite honestly doubts he’ll be able to achieve it. It matters little; Bran can warg (how strange to use that word for himself) into Summer whenever he needs to. He slips into the wolf’s head from time to time, but he never sees anything out of the ordinary. The scratching against the crypt door is at times insistent, at others barely noticeable, and Bran doesn’t know what to make of that. 

“They’ll find a way out that door, one way or another,” Osha warns. “We’d best hope they do it before your sister’s baby is born, and that they move on before the birth.”

“Or after,” Ygritte adds. “Just as long as they’re not standing out there when the baby does come.”

“What happens if they are?”

Ygritte’s silence is all the answer he needs.

.

It’s an hour later, maybe two, when Summer pulls Bran into his head.

It’s never happened like that before. Before, it was always Bran finding his way into Summer’s head. The wolf had never fought him, but he’d never quite invited him, either.

Now, it feels as if Summer is tugging him into his head, desperate to show him something. Bran goes without a fight, wondering what the direwolf sees.

The first thing he notices is that the crypt door is silent. The wights, it would seem, have abandoned it.

After a moment, he understands why.

A handful of wights are climbing over the wall between the North Gate and the Broken Tower--the same wall that stands over the crypt’s secret entrance.

_ They couldn’t get through the door, so they came the other way, _ Bran realizes with a lurch. 

“Wights,” he manages to tell the others in the room. He’s dimly aware of them asking questions, but he’s too focused on Summer to answer. He backs away into the shadows by the guards’ hall; Shaggydog growls, but Summer growls back. The black wolf has never shied from a fight, but he listens to his brother, backing away into the shadows.

One by one, the wights hop from the outer walls to the inner walls, and then they make the plummet down to the lichyard, quiet as shadows. Bran might never see them with his human eyes, but with Summer’s sharp eyes, he can make out a hundred or so wights.

A hundred. Too many for them to fight. 

_ Please, Sansa’s baby, _ he begs,  _ don’t come yet. _

While Summer and Shaggydog slink away, Bran returns to his human body. The others are crouched by the windows, watching the wights; Bran crawls over to join them, only daring to look out of the corner of the window.

The fires on the walls have all but died out, and what’s left isn’t enough to frighten the wights. More and more of them climb over the walls, using each other as ladders to climb up and over. From here, they look like shadows, dark creatures passing through the keep. 

Bran gets back into Summer’s skin. The two wolves are hunkered down beside the Great Keep, watching as the wights slither past them. They’re clearly looking for some sign of life, but finding the castle quiet and deserted, they begin climbing up onto the great hall, making the leap from the roof of the hall to the inner walls. 

_ They’re leaving, _ Bran thinks, relieved. 

He’s halfway between his body and Summer’s when he hears it.

A baby.

The cries are loud and strong, and enough to make the wights whip their heads around to look at the Great Keep.

And Bran and Summer, trying to think of a distraction, any distraction, do what any wolf would do.

They howl.

Summer’s head tips back, howling long and low. Shaggydog joins a moment later, yiping so loudly that any wight might mistake his howl for that of a crying babe’s. 

Lady adds her howl to theirs from inside the keep, and Bran’s heart pounds. Maybe the wights will think it was just the wolves, and that there are no people here. Maybe they won’t hear Sansa’s baby.

And then, from the other side of the battlements, Bran hears a fourth howl.


	99. SANSA VII

While the battle rages on outside, Sansa holds her son to her chest and prays to the old gods and the new that he will live to see the end of this night. 

When she was a little girl, Old Nan used to tell her stories about the Long Night.

“Little children would be born and grow and die, all in darkness,” she would tell Sansa. “Some women smothered their babies rather than see them starve, and wept, and felt the tears freeze on their cheeks.”

_ Please don’t let that happen to us, _ she begs.  _ I will do anything you ask, only don’t take my son. _

Her mother and Jeyne sit on either side of her, and Maester Luwin and Septa Mordane sit on either end of the row. They all sit with their backs to Sansa’s bed, facing the windows and away from the door. Lady sits at their feet, growling whenever the sounds of battle get too close.

Sansa’s never seen her wolf get like this. She’s usually so tame; even her growls, rare enough as it is, sound like a person groaning. If not for her size, Sansa could sometimes forget that she’s a direwolf.

But she is a direwolf, a creature of legend, and when her lips curl to reveal her sharp teeth, Sansa is reminded that her kind were made for killing.

Yet she’s still the same sweet wolf Sansa had plucked out of Robb’s arms, beaming when it licked her face. Lady had licked her face throughout the labor, reassuring her, and when Mother had put the babe in Sansa’s arms, Lady had licked his face, too. 

_ She will protect us, _ Sansa knows.  _ She  _ ** _is_ ** _ protecting us. _

Lady had howled with the baby when he was born, matching his cries with her own. Outside, Summer and Shaggydog had been howling, too.

“What are they doing?” Jeyne had asked with wide, fearful eyes.

“They’re hiding us,” Sansa had said. “They’re hiding the baby.”

Her son stirs against her breast now, warbling. 

“Hush now,” Sansa whispers. “Sleep, little one.”

His wrinkled little face relaxes, and he falls asleep once more.

_ My son. _

Even a month early, Maester Luwin says he looks healthy.

“It may take longer to wean him, and he will need more care than most newborns, but I see no reason he should not live a long and healthy life,” the maester said.

_ No reason, save the wights at our door. _

No one knows what’s happening outside, but occasionally Jeyne will crawl to the window and peer through the cracks in the shutters.

“All I see is snow,” she’ll complain. 

They can hear the sounds of battle outside, and the shouts and ringing of steel tell Sansa that it’s the living against the dead...but who are the living people fighting against the dead, and how many soldiers fight for each army? 

And then Sansa hears something that is neither man nor wight, a great bellowing that sounds almost like a horn. Two more bellows follow, and she wonders...is this part of her dream? The three blasts of the horn?

And then, through the cracks in the shutters, they see fire.

Jeyne crawls to the shutter again, peering outside.

“What do you see?” Mother asks.

“Fire,” Jeyne says unnecessarily. “All over the yard; the guards’ hall is aflame, and so is the lichyard.” She cranes her neck. “There are wights...and men, too, I think.”

“Whose men?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know. They’re too far away for me to see. Night’s Watch, maybe? Their armor looks black.”

“I wonder what sent them back here,” Mother muses. 

“The gods have smiled upon us, my lady,” Septa Mordane says with fervent appreciation. 

“Do not speak too soon, septa,” Mother warns. “The battle is not yet won.”

.

The battle goes on for what feels like an eternity, swords ringing, men shouting, and those strange horns blowing. At one point they hear the battle carry into the Great Keep while a fresh wave of fire burns outside, but the battle never comes to their floor, and after a while, the sounds of battle stop altogether. 

Even so, none of them are willing to venture outside and see what’s going on. Wights could still be down there, and until they know for certain that they are safe, they decide to stay hidden in the room. 

Gradually, Sansa drifts asleep, her head falling on her mother’s shoulder.

.

She wakes when Lady licks her face. She turns her head away, groaning.

It hits her then, how sore and tired she is. She hadn’t really noticed after birthing the baby; there had been too many other things to focus on, like the wights that might come for them at any moment. Now, she feels stiff and sore all over, but especially around her hips. 

Everyone else is asleep; Mother, Maester Luwin, and Septa Mordane all leaning against the bed, Jeyne curled up beneath the window. Only Lady is awake, whining insistently at Sansa.

“What is it?” she mumbles, sitting up and wincing. The baby stirs for only a moment before settling back against her.

Lady whines again, gently taking the hem of Sansa’s robe in her teeth and giving a small tug.

Something tells Sansa that she ought not ignore the direwolf. She makes the slow and torturous climb to her feet, pushing past the pain between her legs as she uses one arm to pull herself up. This done, she hobbles after Lady, who scratches at the door.

“What is it?” Sansa asks.

Lady whines plaintively, scratching at the door.

“You want out?”

Sansa takes her whuff as a yes. She doesn’t like the idea of opening the door and letting out the direwolf, but Lady must know something she doesn’t. It’s been quiet for a while now; maybe it’s safe now. 

The babe tucked close in one arm, she uses her free hand to tug open the door. Lady walks outside, turns, and looks expectantly at Sansa.

“What?”

The wolf paces in a circle, turning back and giving Sansa that same expectant look.

“What is it, Lady?”

Impatient, the wolf lets out a small growl, taking the hem of Sansa’s robe in her teeth again. 

“Alright, alright!” She follows the wolf, closing the door behind her, just in case.

Lady leads them down the corridor to the stairs, sniffing excitedly. She smells something, and whatever it is seems to be a good thing. Sansa follows her down the stairs, moving at an excruciatingly slow pace. Several times she has to lean against the wall and breathe deeply, waiting for the throbbing pain to subside.

When they reach the bottom of the stairs, something feels...off. She doesn’t know how or why she feels that way, just that she does. There’s no sign of the dead anywhere...nor is there any sign of the living. 

Lady’s hair stands on end, and Sansa knows that something is wrong.

“Lady?” she whispers, and the wolf lets out a small growl. 

She could go back up the stairs...but the thought of going up all those stairs it took so much effort to come down makes her legs shake. She starts to sit on the stairs, waiting, but Lady tugs at her robe again, so Sansa follows her down the corridor that leads out to the courtyard.

It’s cold and dark and quiet and oddly, eerily familiar.

Every step is agony, her hips and legs trembling with the effort. Blood trickles down her thigh, but she ignores it. Her ears are pricked, her heart pounding. 

The babe stirs in her arms, making a small sound, and she freezes in fear. 

_ Hush, _ she quietly tells the babe,  _ don’t make a sound, not yet, please. _

The babe’s eyes are still closed, and after a moment, he settles against her breast again, deep asleep. She sags her shoulders in relief and continues her slow and trudging walk. 

The castle is a shell of its former self. Tapestries are ripped, hanging by threads, and the shields and spears that lined the corridors have been splintered into nothing. Snow has drifted inside, and wind howls past the open windows and doors. Her fear keeps her numb from the temperature, for even though she’s wearing little more than a nightgown and a robe, her heart is pounding so hard she’s sweating. 

_ Please, let us live, let us live. _

It’s familiar,  _ too _ familiar, and it takes Sansa a moment to realize why.

_ This is just like the dream I had, the day Darkstar came to Winterfell. I dreamt I was alone in Winterfell with my baby, and then-- _

Lady growls, her hair standing on end, and before Sansa can backtrack, the horrible dead things are scuttling at her from all sides, their skeletal hands reaching for her and her baby. She opens her mouth and screams and--

An arrow lands in the wight nearest her, and it crumbles into dust. A second arrow lands in the one beside that one, and then she hears men shouting as they fill the corridor and attack the wights. Lady backs her against the wall; Sansa follows the direwolf, sinking to the floor and letting Lady stand guard over her while the men fight the wights. Her baby starts crying, sensing her own fear; she huddles over him, murmuring, “It’s alright, it’s going to be alright.”

When Lady moves away at last, Sansa looks up and sees that the wights are all dead, and standing over them are men she knows.

“Father?”

He pulls her to her feet, wrapping his arms around her when she begins crying into his shoulder. 

_ We’re safe now, _ she thinks with relief.  _ Father came for us after all. _

“It’s alright,” he tells her, stroking her head. “You’re alright, you’re safe now.” He puts his hands on her arms, gently pushing back so he can look at her. His eyes catch on the baby, and she watches tears form. 

“We ran into Benjen and his men; he said you were in labor…”

“I only had him an hour or two ago,” she says, shifting the baby in her arms. He’s still fussing, but he’s calmer now, almost as if he senses that he’s safe. 

“Him?”

“A boy,” she confirms, and she smiles for the first time since this horrible night began. “Maester Luwin says he’s healthy.”

“Is he here?”

“Yes, he’s in my room with Mother and Jeyne and Septa Mordane. Bran and Rickon went off somewhere, I don’t know where.”

“We’re here.”

She looks around and sees the two boys standing with Robb and Theon. In fact, all of the Brotherhood without Banners are here, as well as some men she doesn’t know...but nowhere does she see her husband.

“Edric…?”

“He’s alright,” Robb reassures her, hugging her carefully. “He was wounded at Casterly Rock, but the maesters say he’ll recover.”

As upset as she is to learn that he’s wounded, and as sad as she is that he can’t be here to see their son, she’s glad, in a way. Casterly Rock is far from here, and from the wights. 

“Stay with your sister,” Father orders his sons. “I’m going to find your mother.”

Half the men go with Father; the other half begin moving the wights while Sansa sits on the floor again, resting against Lady. Bran and Rickon sit on either side of her, admiring the baby.

“He’s so  _ small _ ,” Rickon marvels. “And you were so  _ fat _ .”

Robb smacks his youngest brother in the back of the head. “Be nice.” He squats down to look at the baby, too. “He  _ is _ tiny.”

“He came a month early.”

Robb lets out a low whistle. “Uncle Benjen said you were laboring during the battle. Do you feel alright?”

“As alright as one can be, under the circumstances,” she says in a droll voice. “Robb, is Edric truly alright?”

“He was talking and eating when we left, and the maester didn’t seem concerned. As soon as he’s able to travel, he’s going to King’s Landing, where he’ll be under the care of more maesters.”

“He fought bravely,” Beric Dondarrion tells her. “He and I got separated during the fray, and that was when his cousin Darkstar found him.”

Her stomach lurches. “Darkstar was there?”

“Only for a moment,” Theon says with some satisfaction. “He was trying to kill Edric when Grey Wind tore his throat out.”

“Good boy,” Sansa tells the great grey wolf, whose tail wags at the compliment. 

A door creaks open down the hall, and Sansa tenses, but the footsteps sound too even to be wights. Sure enough, a group of people round the corner, led by Uncle Benjen; with him are Jaime Lannister, Aunt Lyanna, the red woman, Asha Greyjoy, a woman who can only be Daenerys Targaryen by her silver hair and purple eyes, and--

“Jon!”

He crosses towards her, wrapping her in a hug. He’s still the same Jon, but he looks different now. Older and stronger. 

_ He looks like Father. _

“Last time I saw you, you were a little girl,” he tells her when he pulls back. “Now you’re a mother.”

“It’s strange to me too,” she admits. 

He leans back, gesturing to the silver-haired woman. “Sansa, this is Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“It is an honor to meet you, Queen Daenerys,” Sansa says as politely as she can. “Forgive me for not rising--”

“You have just birthed a child, my lady; there is nothing to forgive.” Daenerys Targaryen’s smile is warm as she bends down to kiss Sansa’s cheek. “I’ve heard much about you; it’s an honor to finally meet you.”

“Thank you,” Sansa says, surprised. 

Father returns then with Mother and the others; Jeyne cries out, “Theon!” and runs to him. He catches her in his arms, kissing her deeply while Mother embraces Jon and is introduced to Queen Daenerys. 

Sansa cannot help but watch Jeyne and Theon with a twist of envy. She  _ is _ happy Edric is safe in the south rather than risking his life up here...but she wants to kiss him and be held by him the way Jeyne is kissing and being held by Theon. She wants to wake up beside him, and to show him their son, and to feel that everything will be alright as long as he is beside her.


	100. THEON X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are at 100 chapters!! There are 14 more to go and I don't know what I'm going to do with myself!!

Two hundred of them sailed north and joined up with one hundred brothers of the Night’s Watch and wildlings, yet only half that number remains after the battle. They pile up and burn their dead outside the walls, Daenerys’s three dragons providing the flames to light the pyres. Melisandre prays over them, chanting, “The night is dark and full of terrors, but the fire burns them all away.”

It was dragonfire that saved them, both at Cerwyn, where they’d encountered Benjen Stark and his men, and at Winterfell, where they’d encountered thousands more wights. Once the castle has been cleared of all bodies, the survivors bar the gates, set men on watch, and plan their next move.

“Winterfell is safe for now,” Lord Stark proclaims, “but how long will that last? If wights can cross over the Wall, more may come. As Warden of the North, I would like to evacuate the whole of the North until the Army of the Dead has been defeated.”

Queen Daenerys nods. “I agree. Until we know we’ve destroyed the whole army, I don’t want to risk anymore lives.”

“Everything north of here has been evacuated,” Lady Catelyn says. “Most will have sought shelter at White Harbor, but some will have gone to Hornwood, Torrhen’s Square, Barrowton, and Ramsgate, and many and more will have gone even further south.”

“Let every great house south of Moat Cailin open their doors to the refugees from the North,” the queen proclaims. “I have heard Moat Cailin is the key to the North, and no one can reach the North without first going through Moat Cailin. Can the same be said of reaching the south?”

“If it were any other army, yes,” Lord Stark tells her. “But these wights don’t need roads to travel. They don’t ride horses. They can climb over any wall. We can arm Moat Cailin as much as possible, but if the wights are determined to move south, I have no doubt they can find a way.”

Benjen Stark clears his throat. “If I may, Your Grace?” At her nod, he continues, “The white walkers are still north of the Wall. It is said that there is some magic that prevents them from crossing it. However, they can still control their armies from beyond the Wall. They can communicate with them, even from a great distance. If we can kill the white walkers--”

“--we can kill the whole army,” Daenerys finishes. “Very well, then let us make for the Wall. The evacuations should continue, at least until we know for certain that the North is safe.”

“The rookery was untouched by the battle; I will send ravens to all the great houses,” Maester Luwin offers.

“Thank you, maester. As soon as the rest of our army has joined us, we will make the march north. At that time, Lady Stark, I will have men escort you and your household south.”

Asha steps forward. “I would be honored to lead the escort; my ships will be waiting by the Fever, and my men will take them wherever I command.”

“You are most kind, Lady Asha,” Lady Catelyn says gratefully. 

“I will go, too,” Theon offers.

“And I,” adds Robb.

“The whole of the Brotherhood without Banners will go,” Beric declares. “We are not as good of fighters as the rest of the army, who will be needed more at the Wall.”

“I will have my men assist with the evacuations,” Lord Stark offers. “They know this land and its people better than most.”

“Then it is settled,” says Daenerys. “And now I think we have  _ all _ earned something hot to eat and a soft bed to sleep in.”

They all disperse to get something to eat and find a place to sleep, but Theon heads for Sansa’s room, where he expects to find Jeyne. 

Sure enough, she answers his soft knock; she only glances at a sleeping Sansa once before slipping out the door, closing it behind her and kissing him eagerly. 

“Can we go someplace and talk?” he asks when they finally come up for air. 

She raises an eyebrow. “Talk, or  _ talk _ ?”

He raises his hands defensively. “I swore an oath, remember? Not until we’re wed.”

“You’re no fun. But yes, we can go someplace and do whatever kind of talking you’d like to do; Sansa won’t miss me.”

He takes her to his old room, untouched even after everything. As soon as the door is closed, she’s kissing him again, enough to make him nearly forget himself.

But he does remember himself, and pulls back. “I meant it. Not until we’re wed.”

She pouts. “But I don’t care about what’s  _ proper _ anymore.”

Remembering himself before he lets himself get improper, he grips her arms and says, “Not until we’re wed...but I don’t want to wait until after the war anymore. I want to get married now, before we have to part again. When I leave you, I want to leave you as my wife.”

“Really?” she asks breathlessly.

“Really.”

She beams. “I’ll speak to my father first thing in the morning.”

“And I’ll speak to Lord Stark first thing in the morning,” he promises. “We can get married as early as tomorrow.”

She reaches up to kiss him again, ecstatic. “But in the meantime,” she breathes, “are you  _ sure _ we can’t…?”

“I won’t have your maidenhead tonight,” he says, sitting her on his bed and getting on his knees. “But there are other things we can do.”

“What can we-- _ oh! _ ”

.

Lord Stark grants his bemused permission for the wedding to take place that very day. 

“I see no reason why not,” he says when Theon asks him. “We’ll be here for a few days while we wait for the rest of the army. I cannot promise a feast, and you’ll have to make do with what we have…”

“I know,” Theon says as politely as he can. “I don’t care about any of it. I just want to make Jeyne my wife.”

Lord Stark smiles at him. “Very well. Now, I don’t know how the ironborn marry…”

“I won’t be marrying her the ironborn way.”

Lord Stark raises his eyebrows. “No?”

Theon shakes his head. “No. The ironborn way...it isn’t for me. Jeyne and I were raised here, and I want to marry her in the godswood.”

Lord Stark’s eyes become bright. “I see. Well, I will speak to Vayon about making the arrangements.”

“Thank you, Lord Stark.” He turns to go, but Lord Stark calls after him.

The other man is misty-eyed. “I’m proud of you, Theon.”

Theon can feel his own eyes prick with tears. “Thank you, my lord.”

.

They marry in the afternoon, though it is so dark all the time now that it may as well be the middle of the night. Theon dresses in his finest clothes before letting Asha and the Brotherhood accompany him out to the godswood. Their way is lit with lanterns, more a necessity than anything with everything being as dark as it is, and his companions tease him mercilessly as they walk, simmering down only once they join the other guests. Theon stands beneath the heart tree, waiting.

Once everyone has gathered, Jeyne enters the godswood on her father’s arm, and Theon doesn’t think he’s ever seen a prettier sight. They’d found a white dress for her, and a blue velvet cloak that will have to serve as her maiden’s cloak. Her dark hair hangs loose around her shoulders, her cheeks are pink in the cold, and when she looks at Theon, her smile threatens to undo him.

When Jeyne and her father are standing in front of the tree, Lord Stark steps forward and asks, “Who comes before the old gods this night?”

Vayon answers, “Jeyne of House Poole comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?”

Now Theon comes forward. “Me. Theon of House Greyjoy. I come to claim her. Who gives her?”

“Vayon of House Poole, who is her father.” He turns to his daughter. “Jeyne, will you take this man?”

“I take this man,” she says, her eyes never leaving Theon’s. 

He holds out his hands, and she takes them, both of them kneeling in the snow and bowing their heads. 

_ Keep her safe, _ he asks of the old gods.  _ And let me come home to her.  _

When he squeezes Jeyne’s hands, she squeezes back, and they rise together. He removes her blue velvet cloak; Asha takes it from him, handing him a black cloak. There hadn’t been time to embroider it, but Jeyne and Lady Catelyn had ripped the kraken sigil off one of his shirts and sewn it onto the back of the cloak. He drapes the cloak over her shoulders now, heart soaring, for they are man and wife in the sight of gods and men.

She turns to him with a wide smile; he kisses her, to the cheers of those around them, and then scoops her into his arms, carrying her to the great hall. 

The feast is far from extravagant, but it is a feast all the same. Theon and Jeyne sit in a place of honor at the high table, with Lord and Lady Stark in the center and Queen Daenerys on their other side. The attendees drink mulled wine and raise toasts to the happy couple while Tom plays just about every love song he knows. 

Traditionally, the feast is a time when guests might offer wedding gifts to the bride and groom, but neither Theon nor Jeyne expects anything given the circumstances. That is why they’re surprised when Beric gets to his feet and announces that he has a gift.

“I have no sons,” he says bluntly. “And I never will. Theon is as close to a son as I’ll probably ever get.” He clears his throat. “I am the last of House Dondarrion, and when I die--which may be any day now--Blackhaven will need a lord.” He looks at Theon and Jeyne. “My wedding gift to you, Theon and Jeyne, is that Blackhaven and all that comes with it will pass to you upon my death.” He turns to Daenerys. “With my queen’s permission, of course.”

Everyone watches with bated breath as Daenerys considers this. “If you are certain, my lord…”

“I am.”

She nods. “Then let it be done.”

The guests gasp and then applaud, raising a toast to the heir to Blackhaven.

Theon comes around from behind the table, embracing his friend. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you will come to Blackhaven when the war is won, and you and Jeyne will fill it with fat little children. You can name one of them after me, if you’re feeling generous.”

Theon shakes his head. “This is more kindness than I deserve, Beric.”

“You’re doing me the kindness. I may never see Blackhaven again; at least now I know it will be in good hands, and I did not let down my family,” he says gently. Louder, he adds, “Now go bed your wife.”

The hall erupts in cheers as the Brotherhood darts up the dais to pull Jeyne from her seat and bear her out on their shoulders. There aren’t many women at Winterfell, and even fewer who feel up to escorting Theon to his bedding, so he ends up enduring Asha and Dacey Mormont’s ribbing and graphic advice. By the time he makes it to his room, he finds the Brotherhood standing outside his door.

“Don’t you dare listen,” he warns.

“We have to make sure the marriage is consummated,” Anguy says in a would-be serious voice.

“Alright, you’ve had your fun.” Lem starts shooing the men away. “Go on now, leave them be.”

Some of the men raise teasing complaints, but they go without a fight, making ribald jokes and laughing. Theon slips inside his room.

Jeyne is already in bed, and when she sits up, he realizes she’s naked underneath the furs. She holds out a hand, smiling. “Come here.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.


	101. JON XXV

When their armies have joined them at Winterfell, Robb, Bran, Theon, the ironborn, and the Brotherhood without Banners escort Winterfell’s household to Moat Cailin while the rest of the army marches for the Wall.

It’s a long journey to the Wall, but they are blessed with clear skies and only mild snows. There had been a raging storm when they’d made their way to Winterfell; Jon wonders if that was because of the wights. Did the wights bring the storm, or did the storm bring the wights?

Jon and Dany ride on horseback, preferring the warmth of the ground to the bitterly cold winds of the sky, so they do not see the Wall until they are nearly on top of it. Light from the base of the Wall is their only signal that they have reached their destination.

“Castle Black,” Uncle Benjen declares with some relief. “The fires are still burning, so the living must still be holding the castle.”

Sure enough, the gates open for them when they approach, and a portly man with a thick beard comes out to meet them. “Your Grace, my lords, you are most welcome!” he booms. “All except for you, Maege.”

“Piss off!” she declares, swinging out of her saddle to embrace what Jon assumes is her brother, Lord Commander Mormont. Uncle Benjen dismounts, greeting the Lord Commander and introducing Daenerys.

“Your Grace,” he says much more deferentially, sinking to his knee. “The Night’s Watch is honored by your presence.”

“The honor is all mine,” she assures him, helping him to his feet. “Thank you for defending the realm in our darkest hour.”

He opens his mouth to say something else, but his eyes catch on something and widen. “Jorah?”

_ Mormont. _ Of course; the Lord Commander is Jorah’s father. Now that Jon thinks on it, Jorah has avoided the company of the other Northerners, preferring to spend his time amongst the Dothraki. 

_ I’ve been so blind; I was so focused on the war that I forgot this is Jorah’s home, too. Maege is his aunt, her daughters his cousins, and Lord Commander Mormont is his father. _

Jorah walks forward, inclining his head stiffly. “Father.”

The two men stare at each other for what feels like an eternity. Finally, Maege bellows, “Oh, stop being so proud!” and pushes the two men together. They embrace awkwardly, but Jon sees the emotion pass between the two men.

“Let’s talk later,” the Lord Commander says quietly. “When the battle is won.”

“Aye,” Jorah agrees. “When the battle is won.”

.

They send five hundred men up to the top of the Wall, armed with obsidian arrowheads, braziers for flaming arrows, and trebuchets doused in oil for burning. From below, Jon watches as the top of the Wall becomes bright with fire, sending fiery balls of twine arcing over the other side of the Wall and jets of flaming arrows. 

When they’re given the signal from the top, Jon and Dany mount their dragons and urge them to the top of the Wall.

“They’re hiding in the trees!” a man of the Night’s Watch shouts when the dragons level with the Watch. 

The trees go on for miles, but that makes little matter; fire catches, and even if it means burning the whole forest, at least they will have destroyed the Army of the Dead. 

Drogon leads the dragons, swooping over the Wall and down towards the forest.

_ “Dracarys!” _ Dany calls, and the three dragons open their mouths, jets of flame spewing forth and landing on the trees below. The whole forest grows bright with fire, and through the gaps, Jon can see wights struggling to retreat before the flames engulf them. The dragons skim low over the treetops, burning anything that moves. The fire spreads quickly, jumping from one tree to the next until the whole forest is ablaze. 

In hindsight, he should have known it was too easy.

Something big and sharp and crystalline sails out of the trees, striking Viserion in the heart. The dragon erupts in flames, screaming as he careens towards the ground.

_ “VISERION!” _ Dany shrieks.

Jon can only watch, helpless, as the flames melt into blood, the golden dragon sprawling on the ground and whimpering in agony.

Drogon starts to nosetail for his brother, but Jon urges Rhaegal forward, blocking his path. “No!” he shouts. “This is a trap, we have to leave!”

Dany hesitates, her eyes blazing, but Drogon barrel rolls just in time, for another sharp crystal whizzes past them. Dany screams, clinging to his back.

“Come on!” Jon shouts, and the dragons speed away from the forest, back to the Wall. Another crystal sails towards them; Rhaegal plummets just in time to avoid it, making a sharp curve up and over the Wall.

Father and many others rush out to greet them when they land, breathless and shaking. Jon catches Dany as she stumbles off of Drogon, burying her face in his chest and sobbing.

“What happened?” Father asks, eyes wide.

“They killed Viserion,” Jon tells him. “They had some kind of weapon...a spear, almost, but it was unlike any spear I’ve ever seen before. They were hiding in the trees, so we couldn’t see them.”

Father pales. “Gods be good.”

“It was a trap,” Uncle Benjen realizes. “The white walkers can’t cross over, so they had to bring us to them.”

“But what purpose does that serve?” Jon asks.

It is at that moment that a blast of blue flame surges through the Wall.

The men atop the Wall scream and run down the long stairway, but Jon knows that they will not make it. He can only watch, horrified, as the Wall shudders and shakes, and those not killed by the blue flame are killed when the Wall begins to crumble.

“What sorcery is this?” Father whispers. Then, shouting, “Pull back! Pull  _ back _ !”

The army gathered at the base of the Wall does just that, mounting and retreating. Jon and Dany clamber onto Rhaegal and Drogon, taking to the skies to see what’s happening.

They fly high into the sky, too high for the white walkers to reach them, and see the cause of the blue flame.

It’s Viserion, but he is not as he was. A creature with skin as white as snow rides him, his eyes an icy blue to match Viserion’s. When he breathes his blue flame, his entire body glows with it.

Jon’s heart sinks.  _ He’s one of them now, _ he realizes.  _ A wight. That’s why they hid in the trees. They knew we were coming, and they wanted to add dragons to their army. _

“We have to go,” he tells Dany, but she only stares at Viserion in confusion. 

“I don’t understand…”

“He’s one of them now. He died, and they made him rise again. We have to go.”

When she does nothing, Jon calls, “Drogon,  _ amāzigon! _ ”

The dragon obeys the command, following Jon and Rhaegal back over the Wall--or what’s left of it. All around them, pieces of the Wall are crumbling, the army of the living retreating. Castle Black is crushed by the chunks of falling ice, and when the last piece has fallen, a snow-white creature on a dead horse rides over the rubble.

_ The magic is undone, _ Jon realizes.  _ The white walkers can pass through the Wall. _

An army of thousands emerges from the trees, making for the rubble. Jon flies close to the ground, close enough that the commanders can hear him.  _ “RETREAT!” _ he bellows.  _ “THEIR NUMBERS ARE TOO GREAT, RETREAT!” _

The army doesn’t need to be told twice; everyone makes a run for it, moving as fast as they can. The Army of the Dead walks slowly, ambling over the icy ruins, Viserion and his new master hovering in the air. When Jon looks back, it seems to him that the white walker on Viserion’s back is smiling.

.

The army rides hard for Last Hearth. Jon and Dany follow behind the army, setting fields and forests ablaze to slow the march of the dead. The army of the living only stops a few times, and only for a handful of hours at a time to rest.

When they finally do reach Last Hearth, abandoned after all its inhabitants moved south, the Greatjon breaks open what’s left of his stores to feed and warm the men while the commanders gather in the great hall to discuss their plan of action.

“The Army of the Dead has more numbers than we anticipated,” Lord Commander Mormont says unhappily. “It won’t do to meet them head-on in battle; not only will they defeat us, but they’ll take all the men who fall in battle and make them rise again as footsoldiers for  _ their _ army.”

“Then how do we defeat them?” Dany asks. 

“With respect, my queen, our best hope is to defeat the wight dragon,” the Lord Commander says gently. “Your living dragons can destroy hundreds of wights at a time, but the dead dragon won’t let them get the chance.”

Dany’s face is a stone mask, hard and unreadable. “I understand.”

“How does one destroy a wight dragon?” Jon wants to know. “I don’t think fire will work on him the way it works on the other wights.”

“Fire cannot kill a dragon,” Dany says softly. “Not even a dead one.”

“How did the white walkers fell him?” the red woman asks.

“I’m not sure. It looked like they hurled a shard of ice as tall as a man.”

“Ice made into a weapon,” she muses. “Perhaps dragonglass, which is fire made into a weapon, will destroy the wight.”

“I’m not sure if we have time to fashion a dragonglass spear,” Father says.

“We must make time,” Dany says, surprising them. “Lord Commander Mormont is right; as long as the Army of the Dead has a dragon, they will have the upper hand. Destroying him must be our first priority.” She looks down at a map of the North spread out before her. “How likely is it the Army of the Dead will come this way, and not through the mountains?”

“Very likely,” Uncle Benjen says. “If their goal is to kill us, they’ll be on our tails. This is also the fastest way south; the mountains will add time, even for the dead.”

She keeps looking at the map, the cogs in her head turning. 

“What are you thinking?” Jon asks her quietly. 

“It might be mad.”

“With respect, my queen, nothing about this war isn’t mad,” Mother says wryly. 

Dany takes a deep breath. “Here is what I propose.”


	102. ROBB IV

They don’t run into anymore wights on the journey to Moat Cailin, for which Robb is grateful. He isn’t so foolish as to believe there aren’t other wights wandering around somewhere, but they seem to at least be steering clear of the small party. 

The storm that battered them on the way to Winterfell has passed, and the houses, barns, and inns that they encounter are all empty, which Robb hopes is because the inhabitants evacuated of their own free will. They shelter in these places whenever they need a rest, and take only what food and drink they need, never knowing how soon another weary traveler may come across it. 

“Where are we going, anyway?” Rickon asks one night. He’s unhappy about having to go south while Bran gets to fight, but even Bran won’t be doing much fighting; he’s an archer, and Father will be keeping him as far from the fray as possible. Not that Rickon understands that; to him, Bran gets to be a warrior, and Rickon has to shelter with the women.

“We are going to Starfall,” Mother tells him, ladling soup into his mug. “It is Sansa’s home now, and far enough south that we should be safe.”

Rickon makes a face. “That’s  _ too _ far south. Shaggydog doesn’t like it in the south.”

“Shaggydog will just have to accept it, as will you,” Mother says sternly. 

“You’ll like it in Dorne,” Robb tells his youngest brother. “There are lots of big, open spaces for Shaggydog to play, and there’s lots of things to do.”

“Like what?”

“Riding, and hunting, and swimming,” says Lem. “I visited Starfall when I was a boy. It stands over the water, where the Summer Sea narrows into the Torentine. The cliffs on either side of the river are high and shade it from the sun, so even in the heat of summer, the water is nice and cool. Even a direwolf of the North will like it.”

Later that night, when Lem comes to relieve Robb of his sentry duties, he asks him if he’s really been to Starfall.

“No,” Lem says bluntly. “I only heard Edric talk about it and exaggerated for effect.”

Robb grins. “Well, I thank you for it; Rickon’s a handful even when he’s in a good mood, and my mother and sister have enough to worry about as it is.”

“They’re good women, your mother and your sister.” Lem sighs. “It’s a shame Edric couldn’t be here.”

“I know. He should meet his son.” Robb hesitates. “In some ways, though...I think it’s a good thing. We don’t know how long or how badly this war will go on. If he’s resting in the south, perhaps he’ll be spared.”

“And the rest of us won’t?”

Robb shrugs. “Well, it’s a possibility, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Lem agrees. “It’s like you said, we don’t know how long or how badly it will go on.” He hesitates. “I think maybe Edric getting hurt was the Lord’s will.”

Robb raises his eyebrows. “The Lord of Light?”

“Aye. Everything happens for a reason. Maybe Edric has some purpose to serve in the south.”

“But what good is he in the south when the fighting’s in the North?”

Lem shakes his head. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s not for me to know.” He claps Robb’s shoulder. “Go inside, enjoy the warmth.”

Robb does, heading back inside the farmer’s house. Most of the others are sleeping in the barn; it’s bigger and has enough straw to serve as beds, but the Starks are all in the house. 

Sansa’s sitting in the rocking chair by the hearth when he comes in, stamping the snow from his boots. The baby is asleep, and Sansa has a tired look on her face.

“Why aren’t you in bed?”

“He’ll wake up if I stop moving.”

That would explain why he sleeps in the cart by day and keeps them all up with his wailing by night. It’s part of the reason the Starks are staying in the house away from the others; at least they’ll be the only ones woken by his cries, and no one else. 

“I can take him for a bit,” Robb offers. “If you want to sleep.”

Sansa gives him an amused look. “ _ You _ want to take the baby?”

“Sansa, I mean this with all kindness...but you look like shit.”

She laughs, surprising him. “I know. I feel like shit. But you need your rest more than I do; what if we encounter wights on the road?”

“We’ll wake up the little one and let him scream the wights away. Come on, let me hold him for a bit, at least.”

“If you like, but you have to keep moving.”

“I will.” He scoops the baby from her arms, bouncing him lightly as he walks up and down the room. His nephew sleeps so deeply that Robb can hear his little breaths, and it melts something inside of him. “Still don’t have a name?”

“I was thinking Aleric.”

“Aleric?”

“It was Edric’s father’s name,” she explains. “I thought he might like it.”

“I think he would,” Robb agrees. “It’s a good name. Strong. Not as good as  _ Robb, _ of course, but it will serve.” He hesitates, glancing at his sister. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

He sits on the bench by the table, still rocking the baby. “Which do you think is more important: love, or your duty to your family?”

The question takes her by surprise. “Well...they’re both important.” 

“But I mean...if you found someone you loved, truly loved, and you wanted to be with them, but it would mean failing your duty to your family...which would you choose?”

Realization dawns over Sansa’s face. “You’re in love with Daenerys.”

“No,” he lies, flushing.

“Yes you are!” She looks almost excited. “Jeyne said you were sneaking around with her--”

“How does Jeyne know?”

“Please, do you think Theon didn’t tell his own  _ wife _ that his closest friend was the queen’s lover?” Sansa scoffs. “But I just assumed it was a sort of...comforting each other during the war sort of thing. I didn’t know you were in  _ love _ with her.”

“Don’t tell Mother,” he begs. “You know how she is.”

Sansa’s excitement fades. “Yes, I suppose she wouldn’t approve. You’re the heir to Winterfell, and you can’t very well rule Winterfell from the south.” 

“No,” he agrees. “I can’t.”

She considers his dilemma. “But you want to marry her, though?”

“I do, but I don’t know if she wants to marry me.”

“I’m sure she does,” she dismisses, as if this should be very obvious. “You’re something of a catch. Would you be happy in the south? At King’s Landing?”

“If I was with her, I could be happy anywhere.”

Sansa gets a sentimental look on her face. “That’s  _ very _ romantic.” She rocks the chair absently. “I suppose you could name Bran your regent when the time came, and then one of your younger children could inherit--”

“We wouldn’t have children.”

She looks up at him, raising an eyebrow. 

“She can’t have children,” he explains. “A witch...cursed her.”

Sansa blinks. “Oh. Well that complicates things.”

“I know.”

She rocks again. “Mother and Father will always love you, you know.”

“Aye, but will they forgive me? You know our mother’s words. Family, Duty, Honor.” He sighs, adjusting the baby when he begins to wriggle. “Maybe there’s nothing for me to worry about. Maybe I’ll die in battle.”

“Don’t say that.” She reaches forward, squeezing his arm. “For what it’s worth, I think even Mother would understand if you chose your heart over your duty, after all of this. All these...rules we follow, the marriages we make...none of it really matters, does it?” She sits back in her chair. “Mother and Father love you, and I don’t think they would forgive you for marrying Daenerys because I don’t think there’s anything to forgive. She is our queen, and she saved all of us. Having their eldest son marry her would be an honor.” She holds out her arms. “Now give him here and get some sleep.”

“You’re sure?”

“I can sleep in the cart.”

He hands over his nephew, kissing his sister’s cheek when he gets up to leave. “For what it’s worth, Aleric is a good name.”

She smiles. “Goodnight, Robb.”

“Goodnight, Sansa.”

.

They reach the banks of the Fever in the morning and follow the river’s winding path to the mouth of Blazewater Bay. There, Asha Greyjoy’s men take Mother, Sansa, Rickon, Jeyne, and all of Winterfell’s household to Asha’s ships.

“These people are my family,” Asha tells her men. “Treat them accordingly, or I’ll know the reason why.” 

Robb says goodbye to Rickon first, hugging his little brother so hard he lifts him up in the air.

“Stooooooop!” Rickon protests. “I’m too big for that!”

“Not if I can still do it,” Robb counters. He releases his little brother, the boy’s boots thumping on the dock before he races to the boat. One large man swings Rickon into the boat as easily as if he were a rag doll, and Shaggydog leaps in the boat after his human. The ironborn shout and laugh.

Robb says goodbye to Sansa next, hugging her gently before bending down to kiss his nephew. The babe yawns, his eyes shut fast. 

“Don’t give your mother too much trouble,” he says mock-sternly. “You hear me, little nephew?” He raises his eyes to Sansa. “Aleric is a good name.”

She rolls her eyes, smiling all the same. He holds the babe while Asha’s men hand her into the boat; once she’s settled, he leans down to pass the baby to her. 

Then it is only Mother left, and Robb embraces her so hard he can feel her suck in a breath. 

“Oh, my brave boy,” she murmurs, stroking the back of his head as she used to when he was little. “Be careful.”

“I will,” he promises...but how can anyone be careful in this war? 

He releases her, blinking back tears as they smile at one another. She moves forward impulsively, kissing his cheek.

Theon appears at his side with a shit-eating grin. “Can I have a kiss too, Lady Stark?”

To her credit, she laughs and takes Theon’s head in her hands, pulling him down so she can kiss his forehead. “You be careful too, Theon.”

“I will,” he says, much softer than he had a moment ago. He clears his throat, stepping back to hand her into the boat. Jeyne has tears running down her cheeks, and even Sansa looks misty-eyed as the ironborn row them out to the  _ Black Wind. _ When Robb turns to look at Theon, he sees his friend wiping tears from his eyes. 

“Oh, baby brother,” Asha coos. 

“Shut up,” he says thickly. 

In a more serious voice, she says, “You’ll see her again. I promise. I’ll make sure you come home to her, if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Aye, Jeyne’s far too pretty to be a widow,” Robb adds.

“Jeyne?” Asha asks in mock-surprise. “We were talking about your mother, Stark.”

Robb and Bran chase the Greyjoy siblings off the dock, both of them roaring with laughter. 

.

The plan was to accompany Winterfell’s household to their ships and then ride north to join the great army; however, they don’t even get past the barrowlands before they meet the army. 

Robb, Bran, Theon, the Brotherhood, and the ironborn all ride up to the campfires, confused at the sight of so many men so far south. Trading a look with Bran, Robb rides through the camp until he sees the commanders, including their father.

Handing the reins to young Ned Umber, Robb dismounts, joining the group.

“Robb! Bran!” Father exclaims, moving to embrace his sons.

“Father? What are you all doing so far south? We thought to find you near the Wall.”

“We went to the Wall,” Aunt Lyanna says grimly. “And there, the white walkers slew one of the queen’s dragons, raised it from the dead, and ordered the beast to tear down the Wall. The Army of the Dead is loose now.”

Robb nearly stumbles back at the words. How did everything go so bad so quickly?

_ My dream, _ he remembers now.  _ I dreamt that the Wall would fall, and it did. _

Something else occurs to him.

“Why are you here? In the barrowlands?”

“Part of our plan,” Uncle Benjen says. “Or rather, the queen’s plan.”

Robb glances around, realizing she’s not there. “Where is the queen?”

“I’ll take you to her,” Jon offers. Once they’re out of earshot of the others, he murmurs, “I don’t pretend to approve of...whatever it is the two of you have. But you seem to make her happy, and she needs that right now.”

Robb grips his arm. “The dragon…”

“Viserion. The gold.” Jon’s voice is thick. They are Daenerys’s children, those dragons, but Jon loves them, too. He had trained them and ridden them, and now one of them is dead. 

“I’m sorry, Jon.”

Jon shakes his head. “I never expected to see one of them die. Balerion the Dread was two hundred years old when he died; he saw, what, ten generations of Targaryens? Viserion only ever saw half a heartbeat of one.”

“How did he die?”

Jon shakes his head again. “A white walker...I don’t know,  _ threw _ this sort of...spear at him. Not a normal spear, but like...a shard of ice, but as tall as a man. They were hiding in a forest, so we couldn’t see where they were coming from; Dany and I had to leave the fight. Next thing we know, Viserion is a wight, using his fire to take down the Wall.” He stops in front of a tent, closely guarded by two Unsullied. They do not move as Jon pulls back the flap, letting Robb inside.

Daenerys is sitting on her bed when Robb enters, her eyes red. She looks up when he comes through, her eyes widening.

“My queen,” he starts to say, but she’s already coming towards him, wrapping her arms around him. 

He holds her tightly. “I’m so,  _ so _ sorry.”

“It’s my fault,” she says thickly. “I should have been looking out for him.”

“He was a fully grown dragon,” Robb protests. 

“And my child.” She presses her face to his chest, breathing deeply. “I’ve already watched him die once, now I have to find a way to kill him a second time.”

Robb wants to promise he’ll kill Viserion himself if it means sparing her the pain, but even he doesn’t know how to slay a dragon risen from the dead. Does anyone? 

“My uncle said you had a plan.”

She pulls back to look up at him. “Yes. I don’t know if it will work, but the commanders seemed to like it well enough, and it isn’t as if we have anything better.”

“What is it?”

She opens her mouth to tell him, but Jon pushes open the flap, clearing his throat loudly and looking to the side as if to give them privacy. “It’s time, Dany.”

She rises up on her toes to kiss Robb. “Be careful.”

“And you.”

She slides out of his arms, and together, she and Jon leave the tent. 

Robb follows them, finding his way back to the commanders.

“What’s happening?”

It’s the red woman who answers, a strange sort of smile on her face. “The night is dark and full of terrors, Robb Stark...but the fire burns them all away.”


	103. BRAN V

Quietly and without fanfare, the campfires are doused, the tents knocked down, and the soldiers fall into place.

The Unsullied take the frontlines, brave and fearless warriors as they are, while the Dothraki pull so far back Bran can’t even see them through the darkness.

He sits ahorse between Father and Robb, staring out into a vast blackness that never seems to end. Even the skies are black, clouds covering the moon and stars. 

_ The dead bring the clouds, just as they brought the storm.  _

A dragon’s cry from overhead startles him, but when he looks up, he sees two shadows sailing over them. He relaxes, knowing it to be Jon and Daenerys. 

He hears the dead before he sees them, hissing and growling, bones clacking as they walk and then run. He can see them come into view from the light of the torches, can see their horrible dead faces as they come closer, gnashing their teeth and reaching with skeletal hands. Bran’s heart pounds against his chest, his breath misting in front of him. 

The Unsullied commander shouts an order, and his men drop to a crouch, shields up and spears at the ready as they brace for an attack that never comes.

It never comes, because the wights leading the attack do not see the thin curtain of leaves and grass covering the massive pits, and they tumble down, down, down. 

“That was Daenerys’s idea, to use the barrowlands,” Aunt Lyanna tells her nephews gleefully. “They were already hollowed out from thousands of years of graves, it didn’t take us long to dig up the bodies and join the graves in one long pit. Forming the cover was the hardest part, but even that was a small matter.”

The wights scream, clawing to get out, but Drogon and Rhaegal swoop down over them, setting the pit on fire from one end to the next. It’s so bright that Bran has to raise his arm to shield his eyes, blinking in the fierce orange light.

The wights across the pit stand frozen, their dead faces uncomprehending until Drogon and Rhaegal swoop down over them, too, setting them ablaze. Only then do they scatter, running back and to the sides. 

_ The Long Night is dark and full of terrors, but the fire burns them all away. _

The dragonfire works...at least until they hear a third shriek, and a bright blue specter emerges from the clouds. The dragon Viserion comes plummeting towards the other two dragon, opening his mouth and expelling blue flame.

Drogon and Rhaegal split out of the way, racing up to the cover of the clouds. To Bran’s horror, Viserion does not give chase, but rather swoops towards the army of the living, opening his mouth. They tear away, leaping out of the dragon’s path, but many and more are caught under his blue flame. 

“Archers!” Aunt Lyanna cries, and Bran nocks an arrow with the others, sending dragonglass arrows to the dragon.

The dragon bellows angrily, retreating up and into the cover of the clouds. 

“Did you see that?” Aunt Lyanna asks her brothers. “The beast fears dragonglass, which means it can kill him.”

“Aye, but how can we kill him?” Father asks unhappily, steadying his horse. 

“Maybe one arrowhead is all it takes.”

“Then how do we get him in range?” Uncle Benjen asks. 

“Damn it,” Aunt Lyanna swears, “If only Jon had a bow and arrow on him…”

There’s no way to attract his attention from down here, though, not without summoning Viserion and his strange rider.

They have bigger problems to face, in any case; though the pits are still flaming, many and more wights begin hurling themselves into them.

“What are they doing?” Robb asks, his face twisted in confusion.

“The fires,” Aunt Lyanna realizes. “They’re putting them out and filling the pits so the others can cross over.”

“Not for long,” Melisandre vows. She draws her horse forward, turning to Thoros of Myr and speaking to him in Valyrian. Bran only catches a few words, but Thoros understands her perfectly, nodding and riding forward.

“What are they doing?” Theon wonders.

It’s Beric Dondarrion who answers. “Calling for help.” 

And indeed, Bran watches as the two priests of R’hllor take spears from the Unsullied, kneeling over the pit and chanting. Their voices become louder and more urgent, until suddenly the spears are aflame. When the red priests touch them to the side of the pit, the whole thing goes up in a fresh wave of flames, so high that no wight would attempt to leap over it. 

But it is not a wight that comes over.

It is a white walker, a pale creature with snow white skin, ice blue eyes, and armor so silver and burnished it looks almost like a mirror. It rides a horse, and when the horse makes the impossible jump, the fire in the pit smolders, leaving a pathway for wights to run across the makeshift bridge.

As one, the soldiers draw their swords, commanders giving orders as they prepare for the onslaught of wights.

The stream is narrow, so the wights can only enter one trickle at a time. This buys Melisandre and Thoros enough time to mount their horses and ride hard in the opposite direction.

“Are they running?” Uncle Benjen asks in disbelief. 

Aunt Lyanna shakes her head. “Never. They have something planned; we must only give them the time to make it work, and to do that, we must take down this white walker.”

It’s a bold statement for anyone to make, but Father draws his sword. “I defeated one once at Hardhome.”

“Ned,  _ no _ \--”

But Father is already trotting and then galloping forward, men leaping out of his path as he makes for the white walker. Bran watches, horrified. His father has never been the impulsive type--but perhaps this is not impulse.

The white walker watches Father with cold eyes, and when Father gets close, he unsheathes a greatsword of ice from his back.

_ Ice against ice, _ Bran thinks madly, watching as his father raises his Valyrian steel sword.

The swords meet with an odd sort of ringing sound; the white walker’s eyes widen, and when Father flips his wrist, Ice slides through the white walker’s throat. 

Instantly, the creature shatters into a thousand splinters of ice, but that isn’t the strangest part.

The strangest part is that as soon as he shatters, so do the wights who are attacking the Unsullied and rushing in through the gap in the flames. Slowly, the two walls of flame join, closing the gap through which the white walker and the wights entered. Father turns his horse, rejoining them as the men cry out,  _ “STARK THE SLAYER! STARK THE SLAYER!” _

“Are they all dead?” Uncle Benjen asks. “I can’t see through the flames.”

Ygritte, standing on the ground, touches Bran’s leg. “Might be you could, little lord,” she says softly. 

He looks at her troubled. “I don’t know…I don’t think Summer can--”

“Not Summer. A bird, maybe.”

_ Like in my dream. _

He closes his eyes, reaching out the way he would for Summer, only this time, he feels up and into the sky. Surely there must be birds around here. There were some trees in the camps, maybe--

Something flutters across his mind, and he seizes onto it.

It’s a raven, he realizes as he hears  _ quorking _ all around him. He looks down and sees the moat of fire, with the living on one side and the dead on the other. He can see where the fallen wights once stood, but there are still many and more who were not destroyed.

“Most of them are still alive,” he reports, settling back in his body. It feels queer now, to sit ahorse when he had been airborne only a moment ago.

“How do you know that?” Robb demands. “I can’t see anything.”

Bran thankfully doesn’t have to find an answer, because Jaime Lannister speaks up. “If only some of them died, it must mean certain wights are beholden to certain white walkers, perhaps the one that created them? Which means that if we can destroy the white walkers…”

“We can destroy the wights they created, too,” Uncle Benjen finishes. 

“That shouldn’t be too difficult, should it?” Theon asks skeptically. “Look how easily Lord Stark did it.”

“I’ve killed one before,” Father says. “And I have a Valyrian steel sword. That and dragonglass seem to be the only things that can destroy these white walkers.” He considers. “There was one I encountered in Hardhome...he seemed to be their leader. Perhaps he made the other white walkers.”

“Whoever they are, we must destroy them before they destroy us,” Uncle Benjen says. “We have them trapped on that side of the pit for now, but how do we destroy them?”

Aunt Lyanna opens her mouth to speak, but at that moment, a shouting and ululating rises up over the army, and the men part as the Dothraki thunder through the opening, flaming  _ arakhs _ held high. The wall of flames lowers as if by magic, and Bran watches in amazement as the horses leap over the flaming pit, clearing the flames and landing on the other side. He slips up into a raven again, watching through the bird’s eyes as the Dothraki tear through the wights, flaming  _ arakhs _ cutting through them until they shatter.

Melisandre and Thoros follow in their wake, the two priests smiling.

“A pretty trick,” Aunt Lyanna says, eyebrow raised. 

“I was inspired by the Siege of Pyke,” Melisandre says with a droll look at Thoros. “But the Dothraki alone cannot kill the wights; we must needs attack while their defenses are down.”

“I will lead,” Father says, urging his horse forward to rally his men. Bran starts to follow him, but Robb blocks his horse. 

“Stay here,” he orders, drawing his own sword. 

Bran frowns. “But I want--”

“Stay here, little lord,” Osha tells him, gripping the reins of his horse. “Your arrows will serve you better from a distance.”

Bran holds his tongue, watching as everyone else, even Aunt Lyanna, charges on the wight army. The flaming pit is smaller now now, the fire just high enough that no wight will cross it but not so high that a horse cannot clear it. 

Only the archers, young boys, and old men remain behind. And Osha and Ygritte, who grip the reins of Bran’s horse so he will not be tempted to join the fray. 

“I’m not a baby,” he insists. “I’ve fought wights before.”

“I promised your mother I’d look after you,” Osha says stubbornly. 

“Ygritte didn’t promise.”

“No, but I’m rather fond of you.” The redhead looks up at him. “What can you see?”

He frowns. “A battle…”

“No, I mean, what can you  _ see? _ ”

He understands now. He hesitates, but knowing he’s safe with Osha and Ygritte, he reaches out for a raven. It’s easier this time, smoother, but still strange to find himself sitting on his horse one moment and flying up in the air the next. 

He flies over the battle, where he sees living and dead fighting. The battle is equally matched; the wights are stronger and fiercer, their numbers legion, but the living have dragonglass and fire. 

A squall from overhead makes him look up. Through the slits in the clouds, he can see the dragons flying.

He flies higher and higher, until he breaks the cover of clouds. There, he sees the three dragons engaged in a heated battle, orange flames meeting blue. The dragons cannot hurt each other with flame, it would seem, but Bran doesn’t think Viserion is trying to hurt the dragons--just their riders.

If only he could warg into Viserion.

If only…

But he could do it, couldn’t he? If he can warg into two different ravens, why not a dragon? Can wights be warged into? 

_ It’s worth a try. _

He slips out of the raven and reaches, reaches, reaches, until he slams against a cold and dark presence.

_ Viserion. _

It frightens him, how big the dragon is, how erratically he moves when Bran is inside him. Bran flaps his wings, his screams turning into roars as he plummets ten, twenty, thirty feet. There’s another presence on his back, some dead, dangerous thing.

_ A white walker? _

The presence is cold and dark and sinister, and Bran can feel it slipping into the dragon’s mind, reaching for Bran. He withdraws from the dragon at once, gasping as he comes back to himself. His arms and legs are shaking, his heart pounding.

“Bran?!” Osha frets, reaching up to steady him.

Above, Viserion is barrel rolling in the sky, screaming and gnashing his teeth. He rights himself, flapping his enormous wings and shaking his head.

Ygritte looks between boy and dragon, putting two and two together. “You warged into him?”

Bran nods, still gasping. “Just for a moment.”

Ygritte looks back at the dragon. “Do you think you could do it again?”

“Ygritte!” Osha scolds. “The boy’s frightened out of his wits, look at him!”

“Aye, but if he could do it again, even for a moment, it may be enough to fell the beast,” Ygritte says, fingering the string of her bow. “Distract him, like, bring him down low enough, get out of his head just before the arrow strikes.”

Bran is still shaking from before; he tries to muster the strength and then collapses against his horse, hands trembling. “I can’t. Not...not yet.”

“That’s alright,” Osha assures him, patting his knee. “You don’t have to.”

But Ygritte is still fingering her bow. “Wonder how hard it would be to take down a dragon. Would one dragonglass arrow do it? Or would it need a whole spear, like the one that took him down?”

Almost as if it hears them, the dragon and its strange rider come closer. Viserion opens its mouth, a blue ember burning at the back of his throat.

Osha leaps onto the horse behind Bran, kicking its sides and sending it galloping away as the wight dragon unleashes a stream of blue fire. Ygritte and Summer are close behind, though Ygritte pauses once to fire three arrows at the dragons. The dragon flies just out of reach each time, moving past them.

“What’s that about?” she wonders, panting to catch up with them. “Why’d he pass by the battle?”

Bran wonders, too...until the ground beneath them begins to tremble. 

_ The barrows. _

“The dead,” he starts to say, and he begins shaking all over again. “The ground…”

Osha sends the horse galloping as hard and as fast as it can; when Bran looks over her shoulder for Ygritte, he sees her clinging to Summer’s back, her eyes wide as hands begin pushing through the ground. The horse rears, but Osha smacks its hind, shouting at it to keep riding. They ride and ride and ride, until the field of hands disappears and all around them is the cold, clear night. Yet even when they are alone and far from the battle, Osha does not stop.

“Where are we going?” Bran asks, twisting around to look behind him. The fires are dull in the distance, the sounds of battle little more than a whisper on the wind.

“Where I meant to go when your kind captured me,” the spearwife tells him. “As far south as south goes.”


	104. LYANNA XXV

Lyanna loses all sense of time or place. She loses all feeling in her body, all emotion, until all she knows is the sword in her hand and the shield on her arm.

She has lost her horse by now, but in some ways, she finds it easier to fight on the ground. The hands had been pulling and tearing at her, and her horse had shied from each one. They’d pulled her off it at some point or other, but she had cut through them with her dragonglass blade, watching as each wight crumpled into nothing. 

Her horse had disappeared by then, so she’d continued on foot, slicing, sawing, hacking her way through the mire of corpses. 

Hours go by, or so it seems, when she pushes her blade through a wight, and suddenly stumbles out into a clearing. Or not a clearing, not exactly, but an emptiness. There is room to move, to breathe, to take in her surroundings.

The battlefield is dark, for even here in the barrowlands it is night all the time, but the roiling sea of wights has turned into a trickle. The people around her are living men and women, their faces just as bewildered as hers. What few wights are left are easily cut down, their growling cries pathetic.

Lyanna stumbles to where Ned is breathing hard, still gripping Ice as if prepared for a flood. When he sees Lyanna, he lowers the greatsword, wrapping his arms around her as they catch their breath. 

“Did we win?” she asks, dazed. 

“I think...I think we might have.”

She peers past him, looking at the battlefield. There are dead men on the ground, and the white walkers don’t leave corpses, do they? And there are no wights or white walkers, but there wouldn’t be, would there? Once slain, they disappear.

_ We did it. _

She pulls back, looking around at the survivors. It’s still dark out, but there’s enough firelight to show her Robb and the Greyjoy siblings, Maege Mormont and her daughters, Mance Rayder and Tormund Giantsbane, Edmure Tully and his uncle the Blackfish, Stannis and Renly Baratheon, the Greatjon and the Small, and Benjen, who turns to Jaime Lannister and kisses him with a familiarity that tells her they have done this many times before. 

Lyanna cannot say she is surprised, but when she turns to look at her big brother, Ned has a horrified look on his face. 

She laughs aloud, patting Ned on the arm before wading towards Jon, who has just landed on Rhaegal. Daenerys is beside him, and mother and son embrace warmly, breathing a shared sigh of relief at the unharmed state of the other. 

Daenerys sobs behind them, and when they turn, they see her kneeling beside a body on the ground. Lyanna moves closer, her chest constricting at the sight of Jorah and Jeor Mormont lying side by side.

Jon kneels beside Daenerys, wrapping his arms around her. 

“He was like a father to me,” Jon tells Lyanna in a thick voice. “We didn’t always get along, but he looked out for me when I was a green boy in a strange land.”

Lyanna feels a presence beside her; when she turns, she sees Maege Mormont, her face sad.

“I’m so sorry,” Lyanna murmurs.

Maege shakes her head, clearing her throat. “It’s how my brother would have wanted to go,” she says in a voice hoarse from yelling and fighting. “And at least he got to spend his last days on this earth with his son. That’s as it should be.” She clears her throat again. “We should burn them. All of the dead.”

Everyone agrees that this is best, so they gather the bodies and build what pyres they can. Before submitting Jeor to the flames, however, Benjen removes the bastard sword still grasped in the Lord Commander’s hand and offers it to Maege Mormont.

“Longclaw,” she says fondly. “House Mormont’s Valyrian steel sword. It should go to the heir to House Mormont.” She takes the sword, bringing it to Dacey.

The younger woman looks perplexed. “Me?”

“You,” Maege says simply. “Bear Island will be yours someday; it is only right you should wield our house’s sword.”

Dacey takes the sword, gaping. It’s a hand and a half longer than a normal longsword, and its dark ripples are characteristic of Valyrian steel. The pommel is a bear’s head, worn, but no less fierce. House Mormont has wielded this sword for five hundred years, and gods be good, they will wield it for five hundred years more.

Jeor and Jorah Mormont are not the only men to burn; Lyanna finds the Brotherhood bidding Thoros of Myr a heartbroken farewell before they light his pyre. 

“No more lives for me,” Beric jests darkly. “The next time I die will be the last. That is as it should be; a life without Thoros is not worth living.”

_ “Valar morghulis,” _ says a familiar voice, and when Lyanna turns, she sees Melisandre. 

She goes to embrace the red priestess, breathing in her smoky scent. “You said you would die when the Long Night was over.”

“I did, and I will. But the Long Night is not yet over.”

Lyanna’s heart thumps. “But...they’re all gone…”

Melisandre shakes her head. “No, my queen. Not all. Come, look into the fires.” She turns Lyanna, pointing to the flames of Thoros’s pyre. Lyanna looks, and sees, and feels terror grip her heart, for there does she see the truth of their victory. It was not victory at all, but a diversion. While they fought an army of wights in darkness, the Great Other, his dragon, his white walkers, and most of their wights slid silently away, making south for every farm, village, holdfast, and castle in Westeros. Even now they are passing through the Neck, and they will not stop until every living being is one of them.

Lyanna falls to her knees, breath rattling in her chest. 

“Aunt Lyanna?” Robb asks uncertainly, kneeling before her. “Is aught well?”

“No.” She shakes her head, dizzy. “Aught is not well. Rally the commanders; we have to go south.”

“South? But why?”

“The Long Night is not over, Robb.” She looks him in the eye, and sees there a frightened little boy. “It has only begun.”


	105. SANSA VIII

Starfall is beautiful.

After weeks in the same cabin, each hour melting into the next, the sight of any castle would be beautiful to Sansa, but Starfall is truly breathtaking. She stares at it the whole way to shore, amazed at how like Edric’s descriptions it is. High on the cliffs, the castle itself is so white it almost sparkles, the roofs a pale red that Edric told her absorbs the heat so as to keep the castle cool. Purple and white banners fly from the towers and battlements, proclaiming to all that this is the home of the Daynes.

_ It is my home now, too. _

Household guards meet them on the beach, old men and young boys unfit for battle, and escort them up to Starfall. It’s a long, wide road that slopes up one way and then turns, sloping up the opposite direction to the castle. A stone wall stands on the side of the cliff, wrapping around the length of the castle, and its gate is wide open for the new Lady of Starfall and her family.

Sansa already feels less than her best; she hasn’t felt quite herself since giving birth, never quite clean or refreshed, and the feeling has only gotten worse since sitting in the same cabin day after day. She very probably does not look or smell particularly enchanting. But as a beautiful woman with glossy black tresses, purple eyes, and a flowing gown of purple silk glides out of the keep, Sansa feels uglier than ever, wearing an old, salt-stained cloak over several layers made for function over fashion. 

“Lady Sansa!” the woman calls in a musical voice. She sweeps into a curtsy as Sansa dismounts. “Starfall is yours, Lady Dayne.”

“Thank you, Lady Allyria.” 

To Sansa’s surprise but not displeasure, Allyria Dayne wraps her in a hug. “I’ve been so looking forward to meeting you,” she confides. “I wanted to before, but by the time Edric wrote to say he was taking you for his wife, it would have been too late. Besides, someone had to stay here and look after things, especially with our dreadful cousin Gerold lurking about. At least he’s gone now, I suppose.”

Sansa likes this woman already. “Edric has told me so much about you, it’s an honor to finally meet you.”

Allyria beams. “My nephew is very sweet. Now, I must confess, I am  _ most _ eager to meet your son.”

Mother presents him to Allyria, who coos and fawns over the baby eagerly. At last, she straightens up, beaming at the newcomers. “You are all most welcome at Starfall. Ashby will see you all to your rooms, where we’ll send food and hot water for baths for all of you. Lady Sansa, Lady Catelyn, my young Lord Rickon, if you’ll come with me?”

They follow Allyria inside, and somehow, it is even more beautiful inside the castle than out. The floor and columns are white marble, everything bright and white and sparkling. Allyria points out the wall hangings and paintings as they pass through corridors and up a wide set of stairs. 

“This is your room, my young lord,” she informs Rickon, opening a door and revealing a mid-sized but lovely room, the bed and window hangings as purple as the rest of the castle’s furnishings. “And do you know what?”

“What?” he asks uncertainly.

She takes him to the window, pointing down. “From here, it is very easy to pour buckets of water on people. Now, I’m  _ not saying _ I know anything about this, of course, because I’m a  _ proper lady, _ but there  _ may _ have been a young girl who was sent to her room one too many times for being naughty and found ways to amuse herself. But you  _ won’t _ do that, of course, will you?”

“Of course not,” Rickon says with a grin.

“Rickon, do take a bath and put on clean clothes,” Mother says wearily.

“Yes, Mother.”

“Don’t worry, Lady Stark; much of the household went off to fight with Edric, so it’s mostly boys and girls his own age,” Allyria says after they close the door. “I daresay it will amuse them. And if he gets into too much trouble, your room is right here.” She opens the door next to Rickon’s, revealing a larger and statelier room. 

“Thank you, my lady.”

“And you, Lady Sansa, are this way.” Allyria leads Sansa to the end of the corridor, opening a door to an  _ enormous _ room. Sansa gapes as she follows Allyria inside. Two wide steps, of the same white marble as the rest of the castle, lead down to a wide floor. A bed so big it could comfortably fit five people stands against the far wall, the coverlet and canopy a deep purple velvet, the carpet the same deep purple. Up two more wide steps is an archway from which hang sheer curtains, and on the other side of that, a sweeping balcony with a small table, two chairs, and a magnificent view of the Red Mountains and the Torrentine. 

“This is  _ my _ room?” Sansa asks uncertainly.

“Do you like it?”

Sansa nods. “I love it.”

“Oh, good. I’ve always loved this room, but I know I’m biased.”

Sansa turns to look at Allyria. “Is this Edric’s room?”

“No, this was his mother’s.” A sad look flits across Allyria’s face. “She was a lovely woman. I only knew her for a short time, but she was...warm. Gentle. Kind. Hers and Aleric’s was a marriage of convenience, as so many marriages for firstborns are, but they loved each other very dearly in the time they were together. I think she would have liked you.”

Sansa can feel herself getting emotional. “That is very kind of you to say, my lady.”

Allyria smiles, squeezing her arm. “I’ll send up hot water, I’m sure you’d love a bath. I’ll send your wetnurse, too, she can take the baby to the nursery and give you a chance to rest.”

“Oh.” Sansa had not even thought about that. She’s spent every moment with her son since his birth, nursing him, rocking him to sleep, holding him. Even the thought of him going to another room seems suddenly too much for her. “If you please, my lady...could his cradle be brought in here?”

“Of course,” Allyria says, without a pause or question, and Sansa loves her for that. “This is your home now, Lady Sansa, and the cradles and wetnurses are yours to do with as you please. My room is next door, so you only have to shout if you have need of me.”

“Thank you, Lady Allyria,” Sansa says sincerely. Then, when Allyria is nearly to the door, “Actually…”

Allyria waits.

Sansa glances at the infant sleeping in her arms. “My son...I had thought...I had thought of naming him Aleric. For Edric’s father.”

Allyria gives her a soft smile, her purple eyes sparkling. “I think that is a perfect name, Lady Sansa, and I think Edric would be pleased.”

“I don’t want to name him for true yet,” Sansa adds hurriedly. “Not until Edric can see him.”

Allyria nods. “I understand. But for what it’s worth, I think Aleric is a fine name for the heir to Starfall.” She withdraws, leaving Sansa, her son, and Lady alone in their big room.

.

A hot bath does wonders for Sansa’s state of mind; she steps out feeling pink and clean and new, and better than she has since giving birth. She’d given the babe to his wetnurse, a fat, merry woman named Torra.

“I’ve been a wetnurse to four different lordlings, milady, have no fear,” she assured Sansa. “You just take a nice bath and rest.”

Even so, as soon as Sansa has changed into the clothes Allyria lent her, she sends for her son, setting him on the great big bed so they can nap together. Lady curls up on his other side, cracking an eye open from time to time to ensure that her human charges are safe. 

Sansa sleeps peacefully, the sound of the waves rolling in from the sea lulling her to sleep. 

_ We are safe here...for now, at least. _

.

Allyria serves them a lavish dinner that evening, or so it seems to Sansa, who hasn’t been to a feast since her own wedding. 

(She knows Jeyne and Theon had a “feast” at their wedding, but it had been hastily scraped together and was served from winter rations, and she’d had to leave right after it started in any case.)

Most of the food is spiced, but drizzled in honey and sweet sauces to dull the sting. Edric had warned her Dornish food is spicy, but Sansa’s eyes only water a few times, which she considers a victory. They drink Dornish red and honeyed milk, which Sansa finds helps the spice more than the wine or water, and when the servants set the dessert trays in front of her, she gasps.

“Lemon cakes are my favorite!” 

“So I heard,” Allyria says with a smile. “They grow almost too fast and too many for us to gather; we can have lemon cakes twice a day if you like.”

It’s exactly the sort of thing Sansa used to dream about.

.

Sansa comes back from dinner to find her son sleeping in a white painted cradle at the foot of her bed. Lady is watching him dutifully, and every time he makes a sound, the wolf gently paws the cradle until it rocks. 

“Good, Lady,” Sansa praises, kissing the wolf’s head before changing into her nightgown. The night air is cooler than it was before, so she shrugs into a robe before walking out to the balcony, admiring the view. Even at night, when the sky and sea are dark, she can make out the shape of the Red Mountains, the pinpricks of starlight through the clouds.

“Sansa?”

“Out here,” she tells her mother, wrapping her robe tighter around her.

Mother comes out to join her, rubbing her arms. “I didn’t know it could get so cold here.”

“Neither did I; perhaps it’s the wind off the sea.”

“It must be.” Mother looks at her. “So? What do you think?”

“Of Starfall?”

“Starfall, Lady Allyria...all of it.”

Sansa hesitates. “It’s...nice.”

“Nice?” Mother repeats. “That’s it?”

“It’s  _ perfect _ , and that...I don’t know...it doesn’t seem right.” Sansa tries to find the words. “This place is exactly the sort of place I always dreamt about. The palace is beautiful, my room is beautiful, the view from my  _ balcony _ is beautiful, I can have lemon cakes twice a day, and I already love Lady Allyria. And that feels wrong. Why should I get to be happy in this beautiful place while such a horrible war is going on?”

“Oh, my sweet summer child,” Mother murmurs. “You  _ deserve _ to be happy in a beautiful place,  _ especially _ during a horrible war.” She strokes her daughter’s cheek. “You were born in peacetime, and that is all I ever wanted for you. Peace. I wanted it for all my children, but giving birth to you was so different from giving birth to Robb. Every day I wondered if I would receive a raven telling me I was going to be a widow, my child raised fatherless. I feared that someday I would have to watch my son ride to avenge his father. When you were born, I knew that you would want for nothing. I determined that you would never know the taste of true fear, that you would marry someone you loved and not someone your parents decided you should marry. Birthing your baby with the army at our gates a month early during the deadliest storm in living memory was never what I wanted for you, and more than most women could bear. You have fought your battle, my love, and I hope you never fight another one.”

“But there are hundreds of mothers giving birth right now who won’t get to sail away to a beautiful castle with lovely people and lemon cakes,” Sansa points out. 

“No,” Mother agrees. “That’s true. But you shouldn’t feel that you deserve it any less because of those women.”

“But I do. Why should I get to be happy and safe while they suffer in fear?”

“Because the gods decided to make you the daughter of a great lord and the wife of another,” Mother says gently. 

“Well, it doesn’t seem fair.” Sansa reaches up, brushing a stray tear. “I wish Edric was here.”

“I know.” Mother wraps her arms around her, rubbing her back.

Something cold lands on Sansa’s nose. She pulls back, looking up at the sky. “Do you see that?”

Mother looks up too. “Snow? But...it can’t be. It never snows this far south. Even at Riverrun, we barely saw snow unless it was the very heart of winter.”

It’s only a little bit of snow, and it melts almost as soon as it hits the white stone of the balcony, but it is snow nonetheless.

“What does it mean?” Sansa asks, watching the thin flakes melt in her hand. 

“It means winter has come to Starfall...and with it, I fear, the Long Night.”


	106. ARYA VII

Left, right, left again, up, down, left, right,  _ smack. _

“Ow!”

“Sorry. That was better, though,” Arya offers helpfully.

Edric shakes his hand, biting back a shout. Arya is terribly amused by her good-brother, who, unlike her true brothers, never shouts or curses even when he’s extremely upset. She could (and has) “accidentally” kicked him between the legs and gotten little more than a, “Mother have mercy!”

She  _ is _ trying to go easy on him now, though. The maesters have finally given their approval for him to train, but only for an hour each day, and they must be cautious or else he’ll have to spend even longer on bedrest. 

Unfortunately, Edric’s wounds mean that he’s slower than he used to be, and even when Arya is going easy, he still gets hit from time to time. 

She helpfully brings him his water skin, forcing a smile on her face as he drinks deeply. “It really was better,” she says again.

“Thank you.” He wipes his mouth. “It certainly doesn’t  _ feel _ better.”

“The maesters said it would take time.”

“But we don’t  _ have _ time,” he reminds her. “The Army of the Dead is in the North; I should be up there, fighting with my men.” 

“You can’t fight properly until you’ve healed completely,” she points out. 

To her surprise, Edric hurls his wooden sword in frustration. “I’ve failed. If I’d been more careful...I could be in the North now, I could’ve been there when Sansa had our baby.”

He’s angrier than Arya’s ever seen him, but she understands that. They’d all been expecting the army to march up to the Wall and battle the dead there, but then the raven had come from Maester Luwin that the dead had come to Winterfell, Sansa had birthed a healthy boy, and she and Mother and Rickon were being taken to Starfall while the army marched on the wights. Arya hadn’t even known Sansa was pregnant, and neither, it would seem, did Edric. 

And now they have a baby boy, who, as far as Arya knows, doesn’t even have a name. 

_ Poor Edric. _

“You didn’t fail,” she says gently. “And I know nobody thinks the lesser of you for being wounded. By the time you heal, everyone up north will be tired of fighting, and you can come in and save the day.”

“By coming late to the battle,” he grumbles.

Arya hesitates...and then thwaps him in the arm with her wooden sword.

“Ow!”

“Stop being such a baby,” she says sternly. “You’re a father now.”

He opens his mouth to argue...and then slumps. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m trying to be...patient with myself, but I can’t help feel like I let everyone down.”

“You didn’t let anyone down, but if you keep sulking, I’m going to beat you. Savagely.”

“I believe it,” he says, giving her a rare smile. 

She almost asks if he wants to go again, but snow begins falling and she knows they will not be able to. 

“Isn’t it strange?” Edric asks as he retrieves his wooden sword, dragging it behind him while they head back inside. “It never snows here.”

“Had you ever seen snow before you came north?”

He shakes his head. “No, never. But it falls as heavily here as it did in Winterfell.”

“Not  _ as _ heavily,” she protests, but it  _ has _ been falling heavy as of late. Servants had had to shovel and clear out the yard, and even so, the hard packed dirt is now soft and muddy. 

_ It’s the Long Night, _ Arya knows. And it isn’t just the snow; the nights have become longer, the days shorter. It only lasts for a handful of hours now, just like it does up north in the heart of winter. 

“Does it make you miss home?”

“I always miss home,” she says. “But home is more than just Winterfell. It’s my family.”

“Well, we’re family now,” Edric tells her. 

She gives him a small smile. “Yes, we are.”

.

Lord Tyrion is in a pensive mood throughout dinner. Arya is not the only one to notice; Tommen and Myrcella keep exchanging looks before Myrcella tentatively asks, “Uncle Tyrion? What’s the matter?”

He gives her a wry smile. “I was trying to find the right time and way to tell you all, but I don’t think there’s a better time or way than now.” He takes a deep breath. “The realm is in danger. The Army of the Dead has been attacking villages and holdfasts in the Riverlands and the Vale. Queen Daenerys’s army was unsuccessful in defeating them. Refugees will be making their way here, but in truth, I have no idea if we’ll be able to shelter them all, or if the walls of the city will hold without a strong army to defend them.”

Shireen drops her fork.

“I will not lie to you; it doesn’t look very good,” he says gently. “I may have to send the lot of you across the Narrow Sea.”

Arya and Edric exchange looks.

“Do you think it that bad?” Myrcella asks quietly.

Tyrion blows out a breath. “I don’t know. We didn’t think the army would come this far south; the queen and her dragons and all the fighting men in the Seven Kingdoms were supposed to ride to the Wall to defeat the white walkers. Now one dragon is dead and serves the Army of the Dead, and that army is below the Neck. Perhaps the queen and her soldiers will triumph before they reach King’s Landing, but I do not want to chance your lives.”

Tears begin running down Tommen’s cheeks. Tyrion makes a noise, reaching over to grasp his nephew’s hand. “Never you fear, Tommen, I will not let any harm come to you. Any of you,” he adds, looking around at them all.

“I’m not afraid,” Arya says. “I want to stay here, and fight.”

“And me,” Edric adds.

Tyrion sighs. “Lady Arya, your father entrusted you to my care, and I will not disappoint him in this regard. And Lord Edric, you are still healing from the wounds you took at Casterly Rock.”

“You don’t have fighting men,” Arya points out. “Who else is going to hold the city?”

Tyrion drinks deeply from his cup. “I’m not sure anyone is, my dear.”

“We’re not going,” she tells him defiantly. “You can’t make us.”

“The Hound and Lady Brienne will escort all of you to Braavos,” he continues as if he hasn’t heard her. “You will be safe there, and provided for...for a time.”

“I’m. Not. Going.” Arya stands up. “My family’s out there. I’m not going to run away.”

“If you would rather go to Starfall to be with your mother--”

“Fuck Starfall,” she says, so vehemently that Shireen gasps. “If I’m going anywhere, it’ll be north, not south.”

“Lady Arya,” Edric says, rising and taking her elbow. “Perhaps a walk in the night air will calm you.”

She very nearly punches him, but something about the way he said  _ Lady Arya _ gives her pause. Seeing a pleading look in his dark blue eyes, she wrenches her arm from his grasp and storms out of Lord Tyrion’s solar.

Edric jogs to catch up with her; she slows down and waits for him to catch up, but he doesn’t speak until they’re well out of earshot.

“Well?”

“I have an idea.”

“Let’s tell Lord Tyrion we want to go to Starfall,” he says, eyes twinkling with mischief. “He won’t think to stop us, and he can’t spare the men to escort us. I’ll say I want to go and be with my wife and our son, and we can pretend that you reluctantly agreed to come to Starfall since it was better than fleeing Westeros altogether. Then, when we’re on the road, we can head north.”

She likes this plan. She likes it a  _ lot. _ He’s right, Tyrion won’t check up to see if they’re  _ actually _ going to Starfall; he knows they’re skilled with swords, and that they’ll have a direwolf with them, and the danger is to the north, not the south. Once they’re out of sight of King’s Landing, they can head north and meet up with the great army.

_ Or what’s left of it. _ If they were defeated in the North, Arya can only imagine that the army has suffered great losses. 

_ Father and Robb and Bran and Jon...are they alright? And Uncle Benjen and Aunt Lyanna? Theon and Asha Greyjoy? Or is it just me and Mother and Sansa and Rickon left? _

She won’t think about that now. 

“I like this plan,” she says at last. “But...Edric, you  _ are _ still healing.” 

He gets an irritated look on his face. “Well that doesn’t very well matter if the dead come, does it? Better to have fought with wounds and died taking down wights than run away across the Narrow Sea.”

“You could go to Starfall with Sansa and your son.”

“How could I look them in the eye after running away like a scared little boy?” He shakes his head. “I’m coming with you. Even if it means dying; at least I will have taken down a few wights. At least those wights will not come for Sansa and my son.”

Arya raises her eyebrow. “Fair point.”

Edric stops her, gripping her arm again. “Earlier, when I said we were family...well, I meant it. And I hope you meant it, too.”

“I did,” she says at once. “You are my family.”

“Then whatever happens, let’s stay together,” he says earnestly. “And look out for each other.”

In truth, it would be Arya doing most of the looking out; she’s a better fighter than Edric even when he isn’t recovering from a wound, and she has Nymeria. But he  _ is _ her family now, and the only person in this stupid city who isn’t trying to hold her back. And...she wants him to live, so he can go back to Starfall and see Sansa again and meet their baby. He deserves that, more than Arya deserves to fight. 

It’s this last thought more than anything that makes her finally nod. “Alright. We’ll look out for each other.” 

He smiles, face clearing. “You swear it?”

“By the old gods and the new.”

.

They wait three days, enough time for them to put on a show of Arya slowly coming around. On the third day, while the others are getting ready to board a ship bound for Braavos, Arya and Edric speak with Lord Tyrion in his study. 

“We are going to Starfall,” Edric informs the Hand, politely but firmly.

Lord Tyrion inclines his head. “I am glad to hear it, my lord.”

“We’re not happy about it,” Arya throws in for good measure. “But we’re going.”

A small smile plays on Lord Tyrion’s face. “I appreciate your struggle, my lady.”

The door bangs open then, and Tyrion looks up with an annoyed face. “Bronn, I’m in the middle of--”

“Doesn’t matter,” the man called Bronn says shortly. “The Army of the Dead is thirty leagues from here.”

Tyrion freezes. “Thirty? You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

Tyrion goes still and silent for a long moment. “The city must be evacuated,” he decides at last, getting out of his chair. “Every ship at dock must depart with as many people as they can carry. The rest will have to ride or march south to Dorne, or as far as we can make it.”

“You’re leaving?” Arya asks in disbelief. 

“Child, we must  _ all _ leave,” Tyrion says firmly. “Do you know how many people live in King’s Landing? It is estimated at a million. With no army to defend the city from the white walkers, what do you think will happen if they should get inside the gates? It won’t just be a slaughter, but they’ll turn all one million of us into soldiers for their army, and then your father and brothers and all the rest will have  _ no _ hope of defeating the Others.”

It sickens her to realize that he’s right. The people of King’s Landing can’t hold the city against the Army of the Dead, and if they fall, they don’t just die, they become part of the army. Her father and brothers may still be out there, fighting; if King’s Landing isn’t evacuated, then they’re certainly doomed.

Tyrion is already making for the door. “I will trust you both to ride south as quickly as you are able, as I don’t need to tell you what awaits you if you don’t.” He hesitates at the door. “I wish you good fortune in the war to come.” And with that, he leaves them.

Arya turns to Edric. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

He nods, eyes glimmering. 


	107. NED XI

Ned thought he had known fear before, but it is nothing compared to what he feels now.

They’ve been traveling for...well, he doesn’t rightly know anymore. Days? Weeks? Months? He would believe anything at this point. With no sun and only an endless night, one day bleeds into the next until he can’t tell the difference between a few hours and a few days. 

At first he thought it was the grief. They hadn’t been able to find Bran after the battle in the barrowlands, or Summer, or the spearwives Osha and Ygritte, and Ned had come to the obvious conclusion: his son is a soldier for the Army of the Dead now.

He had wept until there were no more tears to weep. He had tried so hard to protect his children, and he was ready to lay down his own life for them. 

_ I should have sent him to Starfall with Cat and Sansa and Rickon. I should have kept him close beside me in battle, not left him behind. Now my son is dead, and he will have to die a second time if we are to win this war. _

Robb and Jon have made little mention of their brother, but Ned can see that it weighs heavily on them, too. Nevertheless, they hold their heads high and keep marching.

_ When did they grow into stern and stoic men? Was it when they lost their brother, or before? _

They’ve lost much of their army, and not just from the cold and the Army of the Dead. Edmure and his bannermen had left to defend the Riverlands, and the Knights of the Vale had similarly peeled away. Soon they had lost the Westermen, too, although their commitment to Queen Daenerys had always been shaky at best. They still have several thousand men...but will it be enough? If the Army of the Dead has truly been to the Riverlands and the Vale, it will have grown even greater in size. Edmure and his men may have only added to the Army of the Dead’s numbers rather than combated them. 

_ It matters little now. We will any of us be lucky to survive this Long Night...if it ever ends. _

Their own army moves slowly, weighed down by a snowstorm that has followed them since the Neck. 

“This is amazing!” Samwell Tarly says to anyone who will listen. “It hasn’t snowed this far south in hundreds of years, and now it isn’t just snowing, it’s a whole  _ storm _ !”

Ned might find the storm more incredible if he weren’t so preoccupied with what waits on the other side. They’ve been blindly following the path of destruction, unable to quite catch up with the wights. That worries him, because if the wights aren’t concerned with the army following them, what  _ are _ they concerned with? What reason could they have for ignoring the thousands of men and women with fire and dragonglass?

_ Perhaps their army is so big that we’re only a trifle to them. Or perhaps they’re leading us into another trap. _

Not even the dragons can get past the storm to see what lies on the other side; the winds are too strong, the snow and clouds too thick for them to see anything. Ned doesn’t even know where they are anymore; they were on the Kingsroad when they started out, but there is no road as far as he can see, and none of the villages they pass are recognizable in the snow and ice. They could be back in the bloody North for all he knows.

He cannot help but feel as though he has failed; failed as a father, failed as a husband, failed as a brother, failed as a lord, failed as a warrior. He promised to keep his family, his home, and his country safe, but he’s just as helpless as the rest of them.

The storm grows worse and worse, until finally, they can go no further. Most of the horses are dead, many of the men lost, and they huddle in the ruins of a holdfast long since abandoned.

_ Is this how I die? _ he wonders, curling up with Ghost as the wind howls all around them.  _ Not in battle, but by freezing to death, saving no one and nothing? _

.

The storm rages for three days, by Benjen’s count. On the third day, they wake to clear skies.

They’re still stuck in that eternal night, but it’s a bright night, the kind that happen when there’s so much snow that even the hour of the wolf is lit by the snow and skies. The storm has passed, and in the distance, they can see the spires of the Red Keep.

_ King’s Landing. _

Jon and Daenerys take flight, circling a wide perimeter around the city. The rest of the army waits in the shelter of the holdfast, watching.

It’s a few hours before Jon and Daenerys return, and the news is not good, nor is it terribly bad.

“King’s Landing is overrun with wights,” Jon tells them grimly. “There are no ships in the port, and we saw tracks leading away from the city, so it looks as though the people escaped, or at least a good number of them.”

“So why are the wights gathering in King’s Landing?” Robb asks, confused. “What need have the dead for a city?”

“There is much and more we do not know about the dead,” Melisandre says gravely. “And there is much and more they know about us. Perhaps they understand the capital is the seat of power here in Westeros, and wish to take it to prove their victory. Perhaps they mean to lure us and every refugee seeking shelter into a trap. Perhaps there is another reason beyond mortal comprehension. All that matters is that we destroy the dead.”

“But how?” Daenerys asks, looking tired. She has looked tired for much of this journey, but Ned is sure he doesn’t look any better. “Attack the city?”

“That’s suicide,” Benjen says gravely. “If we could get rid of the wight dragon,  _ maybe  _ we could kill them with all of them gathered in one place--”

Jaime Lannister’s hand smacks the table so hard everyone starts. “I’ve got it.”

Ned represses an eyeroll. He has little faith in Jaime Lannister’s plan, whatever it is...but then again, Lannister is still here, so perhaps he’s not as stupid as he looks.

Even Daenerys shares Ned’s reluctance. “You?”

Lannister tactfully ignores that. “There are caches of wildfire all over the city. If enough of us can get inside, we can light the wildfire and blow up the wights.”

That stuns Ned, and looking around, he sees he is not the only one. 

“How do you know this?” Daenerys demands.

Lannister shrugs. “It was on your father’s command. His  _ last _ command, in fact. When he realized my father and his men had been let through the gates, he commanded Rossart, his latest Hand and the head of the Alchemists’ Guild, to set off the wildfire and destroy the city. ‘Burn them all,’ he kept saying. Why else do you think I drove my sword through his back?”

Ned nearly stumbles back. Aerys had been a madman full of bloodlust, and they all knew it, but Ned had not known he was planning to murder everyone in King’s Landing. Is that why Lannister had truly killed him? Not because he was working for his father, not because he was tired of serving a Targaryen king, but because he’d wanted to protect the people of King’s Landing?

_ Have I misjudged the man all this time? _

“Is the wildfire still there?” Lyanna asks. “The Alchemists’ Guild didn’t move it?”

“It’s possible, but even if they did, I know where it was stored. You can’t just get rid of wildfire, you see; the only way to do so is to burn it up, and we would have noticed if wildfire was burning somewhere. If the alchemists did move it, it’s in their storerooms beneath the city.”

Daenerys contemplates this. “It is a good plan...of course, with the city overrun by wights, there’s no chance of us getting in there anyway.”

“I don’t know about the city,” Lyanna speaks up, “but there are a couple of different ways to get into the dungeons of the Red Keep through Blackwater Rush. The Guildhall is on the Street of Sisters, which can be accessed from the tunnels beneath the city, is that right, Ser Jaime?”

“It is.”

Daenerys considers this. “Then I think our best hope would be to draw the dead’s attention to the gates and away from the Red Keep and the Street of Sisters while a small battalion gets inside and lays the wildfire. If my father meant to destroy the city, no doubt there is still enough wildfire to finish the job,” she adds wryly. “Then it will only be a matter of destroying the survivors.”

“There won’t be many left if the caches are lit,” Lannister tells her. “The battalion can open the gates, let in our army, and we can storm what’s left.”

“Will wildfire work on the white walkers, do you think?” Daenerys asks the commanders in general. “Fire did not work on them, but wildfire is different, is it not?”

“It may be,” Melisandre says reluctantly. “But we must not depend on it. The men who infiltrate the city must come armed with Valyrian steel or dragonglass.”

“Who will these men be?” Daenerys asks. “Ser Jaime, you must go, for no one else knows the way to the storeroom, and Lady Lyanna, I must ask you to go as well, to lead the men into the city.”

It comes as no surprise when Benjen and Melisandre volunteer to go; Ned also volunteers, as do Robb, Theon, and the Brotherhood without Banners. 

“Very well,” Daenerys says. “Jon and I will lead the attack on the city; the Rush is on the southern side, yes? Then we must have our army attack the northern wall so as to let you pass down the Rush unseen.”

“Very good, Your Grace.”

Daenerys takes a deep breath. “I hope this works.”

_ So do I, _ Ned thinks, looking around at his brother, sister, and sons. He thinks again of Catelyn, of Sansa and her babe, of Rickon, of Arya, who he prays left the city with the others, and of Bran. A bitter taste fills his mouth; he swallows, trying not to think of his son, the boy he named for the brother he lost. 

_ I will destroy the white walkers for all of them. Even for Bran. _

_ Especially for Bran. _


	108. BRAN VI

He sees Summer. He  _ feels _ Summer. But he cannot get inside Summer.

He’s tried over and over since the battle at the barrowlands, but it doesn’t work like it used to. Before, he could just slip inside Summer’s body without a thought. Now, the closest he ever gets is feeling the direwolf’s mind, a fuzzy, distant thing that he can’t get inside of. 

He stares at the weirwood tree before him, full of resentment at the jolly look on its face. 

_ It’s mocking me, _ he thinks angrily. He closes his eyes, reaching again for Summer.

Still that fuzzy, distant nothing. He breathes deeply, frowning at the weirwood tree.

_ Stupid, worthless boy, _ the smiling face seems to say.  _ You cannot even warg into the direwolf you’ve been warging into since you were a child. _

He hurls a handful of grass at the tree and gets up, storming to the hut where he, Osha, and Ygritte are staying. Like much of the isle, the hut is old and covered in moss, but it is probably the safest place to be right now.

_ Unless the lake freezes over; then we’re as doomed as the rest of Westeros. _

They had chosen the Isle of Faces because the Gods Eye is the biggest lake in Westeros, and the least likely to freeze over completely, thus making it difficult for the wights to get to them. They had had no trouble rowing their boat to the isle only a few days before, and the Green Men have assured them that even if the whole lake were to become covered in ice, it would be thin and easily broken, so no wight could cross it.

“How would they know?” Bran had complained to Ygritte and Osha. “It never gets this cold down here.”

“They’re Green Men; they know lots of things,” Osha had said sternly. “Besides, even the ice north of the Wall is easily broken in the heart of winter. We’ll be safe here, little lord, never you fear.”

Bran cannot help but fear, though, and not just for himself. He fears for his family, all of whom are across the lake and all of whom could be turning into wights even while he sits here, staring at weirwood trees and trying to warg into his direwolf.

He smells the soup before he’s even inside the hut. Osha takes his cloak from him, tousling his hair as Ygritte hands him a bowl of a muddy-looking soup. The flecks of food inside look vaguely like the pickings of a tree, but Bran politely says nothing as he tips the bowl towards him and sips. 

The Green Men keep to the old- _ old _ ways here, consuming as little meat as possible and eating the plants and leaves around them. Ygritte and Osha have been respectful of their ways, but in truth, Bran misses the taste of meat. 

_ If I could warg into Summer again, I could taste it, _ he thinks morosely. When Summer had gone hunting, Bran could sometimes taste his kills. There’s no hope of that now, though. 

“Any luck?” Osha asks softly.

He just shakes his head.

“That’s alright.”

“It’s not alright,” he grumbles. “I could be out there helping my family, not...hiding here with the Green Men.”

“You should talk to them,” Ygritte urges, not for the first time. “They know things, or so I hear. They learned from the children of the forest. They can help you.”

“No one can help me,” Bran snaps, and he’s aware even as he says it how childish he sounds. “It isn’t like...shooting an arrow or needlepoint. It isn’t a skill you just  _ learn. _ It’s something you can just  _ do, _ and I can’t  _ do _ it.”

“The children knew how to warg,” Ygritte reminds him. “Which means the Green Men might know how, too. Might be they could help you  _ do _ it.”

“They’re not even real Green Men,” Bran complains. “The Green Men are supposed to have green skin and horned heads. These men just have green robes and headdresses with horns.”

“Aye, and wildlings are supposed to eat babies and drink blood out of skulls,” Osha says dryly. “But that wasn’t true, was it? Or if it was, I would’ve eaten you by now.”

“I’m not a baby.”

“You’re acting like one.”

Bran scowls, pushing away his bowl. “I’m not hungry.”

“Too bad, you’re eating it. All of it. And then we’re going to find the Green Men and ask them for help.”

Bran throws the bowl on the ground. It shatters, shards of clay and soup flying everywhere.

“Oi!” Ygritte shouts. “What do you think this is, your fancy castle with your fancy servants to pick up after you? You’re not in Winterfell anymore, and I’m not your bloody maid.”

Bran feels ashamed; he keeps his head down as he gets on the floor, picking up the shards of the bowl. When the last sliver has been cleared, he calls for Summer, who eats the soup off the ground with far more appreciation than Bran had shown. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

Ygritte humphs. “There were only the three bowls; you can eat out of mine when I’m done.”

“I’m really not hungry.” He rubs his forehead, eyes pricking.

Osha reaches over, smoothing the hair on his head. “You did a brave thing,” she says quietly. “Getting into the dragon like that. But I think maybe we pushed you too hard.”

“No, it wasn’t...it wasn’t that.” He swallows the lump in his throat. “It was that other...thing. That white walker. It was inside the dragon, too. It felt me. It was like...it  _ saw _ me. And for a moment it was like it got inside me, too.”

Osha’s hand stills. He hasn’t admitted that to her yet. He’d told her and Ygritte that he couldn’t warg, but not that part. 

Ygritte’s frown deepens. “Do you think it’s still there?”

“No,” he says honestly. “It was just for a moment. But ever since then…”

Osha and Ygritte trade looks.

“We’re going to the Green Men,” Osha says firmly. 

Bran is too tired to argue with her, so he waits for her and Ygritte to finish eating; when they’re done, the three of them dawn their cloaks and furs and make for the long hall.

The hall lives up to its name; a long rectangle, the hall has a hearth that runs up and down the length of the hall in its center, with tables and benches on either side. It was built to accommodate sixty or so, but there are less than twenty Green Men who inhabit the island now. When they see their guests standing in the doorway, they call out a greeting, inviting them to sit with them.

“Have you eaten yet?” one of the men asks. 

“Yes, thank you, milord,” Osha tells him.

“We are not lords here,” he says merrily. “Only men. Sit with us, please, and tell us what brings you to our hall.”

They do, Ygritte and Osha giving Bran an encouraging look. He takes a deep breath, turning to the Green Man.

“The children of the forest knew how to warg, didn’t they?”

“They did, though they called it ‘skinchanging’. ‘Warg’ used to mean changing into a wolf or a dog’s skin, but over the years, it’s adopted the same meaning.”

Bran swallows. “Well...I used to be able to. Warg, I mean. With my wolf. Only...I can’t anymore.”

The Green Man does not seem surprised. “What happened to change this?”

Bran tells him quietly, but even so, the din in the hall fades out as all eyes and ears turn to him. When he finishes his tale, the Green Men are silent for a long moment, contemplating.

“This white walker,” a man at the far end begins slowly, “did you see him?”

“No. I knew he was on the dragon’s back, but I didn’t get a good look at him.” 

“It seems to me that the leader of this order would ride the dragon,” another offers up. “Perhaps...he is the First.”

The other men murmur at this.

“The First?” Ygritte asks. 

The men seem reluctant to speak more, until the one beside Bran says, “My brothers, our order has kept this secret for thousands of years; why else, if not to share it now?”

“Very well,” says the one at the far end. “But know that what has been spoken cannot be unspoken.”

“I understand.” The man turns back to Bran. “How well do you know your history?”

“Well, I think.”

“And do you know what happened when the First Men invaded Westeros?”

“They fought with the children of the forest,” Bran remembers. “The children didn’t like that they were cutting down trees and taking land, and the First Men thought the children were spying on them, so they fought, until the last hero made a pact with them on this very island. Then they defeated the Others.”

“That is true,” the Green Man acknowledges. “But there is a part of this tale that your maesters will not have taught you. You see, the children of the forest were smaller and gentler than the First Men, and their weapons were nothing compared to those of the First Men. So they had to create another weapon.”

Bran’s stomach turns, already suspecting where this is going.

“They captured a man and used their magic to change him into...well, not a man. Something else. Something...other.”

“A white walker,” Osha breathes.

The Green Man nods solemnly. “A white walker. The First, as we have come to call him. They gave him the power to transform all living beings, except for children of the forest. He took other men and transformed them into other white walkers, and when they killed, they found a way to skinchange the dead.”

Bran is suddenly very glad he only ate a little of the soup, because he thinks he would throw up if he had anymore in his belly. 

“It was only supposed to be a way to keep the First Men at bay, you see. The children could not fight the First Men, so they created the Others to do it for them.” The Green Man takes a deep breath. “And it worked, for a time. The First Men who had settled Westeros drew back in fear, moving farther and farther south. But by then, the Others had developed a taste for killing. After all, it was what they were made to do. They killed innocents, not just the unarmed, but the old, the sickly, the weak. Children and babies suckling at their mother’s breasts. And they didn’t stop at the First Men; they began to turn on the children of the forest, too. The children saw that they had made a mistake, and so they formed the pact to drive back the Others and keep Westeros safe.”

Bran looks at Ygritte and Osha, whose faces are drained of color. 

“You’re telling me,” Ygritte says in a low voice, “that it was the children of the forest who created those...those  _ things? _ ”

“Yes,” the Green Man says sadly. “White walkers, Others, the cold ones, the cold gods...there are many names for them. But they were once men.”

“Not just men,” Bran realizes. “Skinchangers. That’s what they’re doing to the wights.”

The Green Man nods. “It’s a bit different from the way you warg into your direwolf...but yes.”

Bran shifts in his seat. “Can you help me skinchange again? If I can do it again, if I can get into the dragon’s skin…”

“You can help defeat it,” the Green Man finishes. “Yes, I believe we can help. It may not be pleasant...but I believe it will awaken the part of you that has fallen silent.” He looks to his brothers, who murmur amongst themselves. 

Finally, the one at the far end of the hall nods and says, “Let us take our guest to the trees.”

Curious, Bran gets up and follows the Green Men out to the grove of weirwood trees. Three of the brothers bend over the roots of one; Bran cannot see what they are doing, but when they rise, one of them has a bowl full of a white paste with bloodred veins running through it. 

“You must eat of this,” the Green Men tell him, handing him the bowl and a spoon.

Bran takes them warily. “What is it?”

“A paste of weirwood seeds.”

He dips his spoon into the paste, hoping that moving it around will make it look more appetizing--but it does not. “And this...will help me skinchange again?”

“It will awaken your gifts.”

Bran mislikes that, the lack of a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’...but he has no other choice, so he eats.

The first spoonful is the hardest to get down. He almost wretches it right back up. The second tastes better. The third is almost sweet. The rest he spoons up eagerly. Why had he thought that it was bitter? It tastes of honey, of new-fallen snow, of pepper and cinnamon and the last kiss his mother ever gave him. The empty bowl slips from his fingers and clatters on the forest floor. 

“I don’t feel any different. What happens next?” 

“The trees will teach you,” a Green Man tells him, helping him sit amongst a nest of tree roots. “The trees remember. Close your eyes and slip your skin, as you do when you join with Summer. But this time, go into the roots instead. Follow them up through the earth.” 

Bran closes his eyes and slips free of his skin. _Into the roots._ _Into the weirwood. Become the tree._

And then he does.

.

Bran doesn’t know how long he spends in the tree, or the tree’s memory, or the memory of every weirwood tree still standing--it’s hard to say where or when exactly he is. It feels like a millennia, yet when he finally wakes, he’s still in the weirwood grove, with Osha, Ygritte, and the Green Men standing around him.

“What did you see, little lord?” Osha asks, kneeling beside him.

He doesn’t know how to speak at first, it feels as if it’s been so long. He opens and closes his mouth, swallowing. “I saw the children,” he whispers.

“And?”

He reaches out for Summer, and to his soaring joy, he slips right into the direwolf. There is no fuzz, just a seamless slide from his body to Summer’s. The wolf bounds into the grove, and when Bran comes back into his body, Summer is licking his face, tail wagging.

“You can warg again,” Ygritte observes with a smile.

He gets to his feet, pulling himself up on the weirwood roots. “I know what I have to do, but I can’t do it alone.”

“You won’t be alone,” Osha promises. “We’ll go with you to the ends of the earth, little lord.”

“We won’t be going that far...but we have to leave now.”

“Then we will.”

.

They leave within the hour, rowing away in the boat they’d taken across the lake. As Osha rows, a soft singing carries over the water; Bran turns to look at the Green Men, their horned headdresses creating ghastly shadows in the lantern light.

“What exactly did you see?” Ygritte asks.

“It’s hard to explain.” Bran watches as the Green Men slowly pull away from shore, fading back into the wooded isle. “I saw through the eyes of a thousand thousand weirwood trees, from the Summer Sea to the Land of Always Winter. I saw children of the forest, and First Men, and the Others. I saw a thousand generations in the blink of an eye.” He turns back to the two women, who are watching him carefully. “But most importantly, I saw how to take down the dragon.”


	109. THEON XI

The walk along Blackwater Rush is slow and treacherous. The river has frozen over, and the riverbanks are slick with ice, too. They cannot make undue noise, either, lest they attract the attention of the dead. Theon is not so much of a fool as to believe that  _ all _ of the wights have been sent to defend the Gate of the Gods; the white walkers are cunning, and like as not, they have wights patrolling the whole place lest their living enemies try a different tactic.

Several times, someone or other will put their foot through a thin sheet of ice or slip and tumble down the bank, and Theon thinks they’re done for, but nothing ever happens. He counts them as lucky, following Lady Lyanna and Jaime Lannister to the base of the Red Keep.

Lady Lyanna had said this was the better way; though it means going in through the sewers, the other way involves narrow handholds on a cliff that’s like as not frozen over, and it means that someone patrolling may see them coming. So as they duck into the sewer, Theon holds his breath and reminds himself at least no one’s going to fall off a cliff or be struck down by wights this way.

They walk in what seems an endless darkness, each one of them holding onto the shoulder of the person in front of them. They dare not light a torch, knowing the dead’s ability to sense fire, so they must rely on Lady Lyanna and her memory of this place. 

Thankfully, her memory serves them well; she stops suddenly, making all of them bump into each other with muffled curses, and whispers, “Wait.” 

Theon senses movement; though it is dark, he can make out the shape of the former queen bending to the floor, feeling around. 

“Tiles,” she whispers. “Melisandre, a little light, if you would?”

There is a pause before the red woman produces a small flame in her hand. Theon doesn’t have the wherewithal to wonder at it; after all he’s seen, flame in the hand of a fire priestess seems less than extraordinary to him. 

Lyanna is kneeling on the floor, her hands on a black and red mosaic of a three headed dragon. 

“The dragon,” Ser Jaime says. “Then we’re--”

“--below the Tower of the Hand, yes,” Lyanna confirms, standing up and pulling her gloves back on her hands. “About four flights down, I believe.”

“What does that mean?” Benjen asks.

“It means we’re in the very center of the Red Keep,” Ser Jaime explains. “And one of these tunnels will take us out to the Traitor’s Walk, which will take us out of the Red Keep and to the city proper.”

“Do you know which one?”

It’s Lyanna who points and says, “That one.”

Lord Stark raises his eyebrows. “You’re sure?”

“I used to do a fair bit of sneaking out,” Lyanna says flatly. “It takes you out to the mouth of the stairs.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Ser Jaime says eagerly, remembering, “and there’s a second passage, one that goes down beneath the city and runs--”

“--right beneath Visenya’s Hill,” Lyanna finishes. “Come on, then.” She opens the iron gate, all of them wincing as the gate screams open. Whether it’s loud enough to attract the attention of the dead, they don’t know, because they all scramble through the gate, closing it behind them and following Melisandre’s lit hand down a winding corridor. It seems to go on forever, but then they come to a shaft of natural light, with snow on the ground and a blast of cold air moving through the tunnel. There’s a grate on the ceiling of the tunnel, and above it, the city.

Theon and Lem lift Lyanna, letting her peer out of the grate.

“I can’t see anything,” she tells the others. She lifts the grate slowly and carefully, pushing it away from the hole as quietly as she can before she pulls herself up. She disappears for a moment before sticking her head through the hole, whispering, “It’s clear!”

One by one, Theon and Lem lift all the others up through the hole; when it’s just the two of them left, Lem gives Theon a boost up, and then Theon and Jack are pulling the other man up behind them.

The city is dark and desolate, a snowy wasteland that looks as dead as its inhabitants. It almost sounds as if everyone is sleeping, and Theon would believe it were he not looking across the city at the roiling mass of wights and the jets of flame. It’s strange, to watch a battle so far away he cannot hear it.

The others have run across a narrow alley into a covered street; Theon, Lem, and Jack return the grate to its place and join them, ducking into the shadows. Lyanna leads them down a set of stairs…

...and down…

...and down…

...and down, until at last they reach a long, dark corridor. They still rely on Melisandre’s light, unable to see anything beyond the small flames.

“There are secret tunnels all beneath King’s Landing,” Lyanna whispers as she leads them along. “Maegor built most of them in case he needed to escape, or conduct secret business. It’s said the only place that has no secret tunnels is his holdfast inside the Red Keep, because he said he wanted ‘no rats in his own walls.’”

“Little good it did him in the end,” Ser Jaime says dryly. 

Maegor was a suspicious king, and not well-liked, and perhaps one was because of the other. He saw treason everywhere, killing anyone who posed a threat...yet in the end, they say, it was his own fear of treason that betrayed him. Some say he was killed by one of his queens, a woman he’d wedded seven days after he’d widowed her. Others say it was a knight of his own Kingsguard, and still others say it was one of the masons who had survived Maegor’s massacre, a man who had been hiding in the walls since the Red Keep was finished and waiting for revenge.

_ He must have been a patient man, to hide in the walls so long, _ Theon thinks. But with so many secret tunnels beneath not just the Red Keep, but King’s Landing itself, he imagines a man could live in hiding for a while. 

_ Especially if he is waiting for revenge. A man can wait a long time for a thing like that. _

.

They walk for what Theon is sure is at  _ least _ an hour. He’d always known King’s Landing was an enormous city, but it’s one thing to ride through crowded streets during peacetime and quite another to walk in the catacombs while a battle rages above. He tries to draw on his vague recollections of the city, but in truth, he has not the faintest idea where they are.

Ser Jaime and Lyanna seem to know their way around well enough; sometimes when they come to a turn, the two will bicker for a moment before recalling which direction is the right one. 

Like Theon, the others only know the layout of the city aboveground and not below, and none of them have any idea where they are, either. Even when Jaime and Lyanna name a street or a landmark, it only takes two turns for the rest of them to disorient themselves completely.

Jaime and Lyanna come to a halt suddenly, looking down a side corridor. There are barrels along the sides, which Theon finds innocuous enough, but Jaime holds up a hand.

“I believe we’ve found the guildhall,” he breathes.

“This tunnel?” Lord Stark asks in disbelief.

“This is only part of it. Gods be good, they had so much wildfire they couldn’t keep it all in the storerooms. Look here. Careful of that flame, my lady.”

They follow Jaime down the corridor, Melisandre cupping the flames between her hands. At the end of the corridor is a stairway, and at the top of these stairs, a door. They use the sharp point of Lord Stark’s wolf pin to pick the lock, and when the door opens…

“Is that…?”

“Hundreds of pots of wildfire? Yes.”

They stare into the room for a long moment, everyone afraid to walk inside lest a misstep send the whole place up in flame.

“Alright,” Lyanna says, the first to recover. “Let’s get to work, and send these wights back to the hell they came from.”

.

If Theon thought it took a long time to get to the guildhall, that’s nothing compared to laying the trap for the wights. 

If they knew their way around the tunnels, it might be faster, but as it is, their group spends hours carefully carrying pots and barrels of wildfire across the city. Most of the wights will be concentrated in the northwest corner of the city, but they follow Jaime and Lyanna’s directions and leave wildfire beneath the Street of Sisters, the Hook, Pisswater Bend, River Row, Sowbelly Row, the Streets of Flies, Flour, Looms, Seeds, Silver, Steel, and Silk (“God, I’m going to miss this one,” Tom laments sadly), as well as Rhaenys’s and Visenya’s Hills. The last pots of wildfire they carry all the way back to the Red Keep, where they leave them on the dragon mosaic before following Lyanna through an iron gate and up a set of stairs. 

Theon recognizes the Tower of the Hand as they come up on the ground floor; swift and silent as shadows, the group pushes out the servants’ entrance.

The Red Keep is unrecognizable in this light. Covered by a blanket of snow, the great castle looks as dead and uninhabited as the rest of the city. There are no lights on inside the keep, nothing to show any sign of life. 

Even so, the group stays close to the walls of the Small Hall, passing beneath the raised portcullis as they cross from the middle bailey to the outer yard. They climb up to an archer’s nest, heads low as they look over the city. 

“Now what?” Robb asks.

“You know what they say,” Lyanna says, looking at Melisandre. “The night is dark and full of terrors…”

“But the fire burns them all the way,” Melisandre finishes, blowing the flames in her hand.

All at once, a blast rocks the city as bright green flames are unleashed from below. Several more blasts follow in quick succession, sending up jets of bright green flame all over the city. The final blast happens beneath the Red Keep itself, and the party ducks as the very stone of the Red Keep’s walls trembles beneath them.

When Theon finally looks up, the whole city is shrouded in smoke and ash.

In fact, they are all shrouded in ash. It almost looks like snow, but for the burning smell all around him. 

He tries to peer through the haze of smoke, but it’s like looking at a valley in the early morning, when the clouds are so thick you can only see the mountain tops. He sees the broken dome of what was once the Great Sept of Baelor, and another to the east of what was once the Dragonpit, but nothing else. When he looks behind him, he sees the Tower of the Hand and the Small Hall have been obliterated, along with most of the middle bailey, and even the Great Hall is half gone. The smoke wafts towards them, making them cover their noses and mouths.

“Did we do it?” he asks, coughing the smoke from his lungs.

“I’m not sure,” Lyanna says honestly. “I can’t see anything but smoke.”

“The city’s quiet,” Lord Stark points out.

“It was quiet before, too.”

And then, out of the eerie stillness, comes an eldritch shriek.

Theon tenses, watching as an ice-blue beast rises from the sea of smoke, shrieking and breathing blue flames.

“Viserion,” Lyanna notes in dismay. “He’s still alive. Which means…”

“The white walker who turned him is still alive, too,” Lord Stark finishes. “Aye.”

The dragon is getting closer, and Theon and the others duck down in the archer’s nest as Viserion makes straight for the Red Keep. The dragon lands in the outer yard, screeching as the white walker on his back climbs down.

To Theon’s horror, more white walkers emerge from inside the Red Keep; silently, they follow the dragonrider into the smoking ruin of the Great Hall.

Belatedly, Theon reaches for his bow and arrow, but by the time he’s nocked an arrow, the white walkers are disappearing into the smoke.

“What do we do now?” Robb whispers. “The wights are dead, but the white walkers still live, and we’ll never get to them as long as the bloody dragon is guarding the keep.”

As if hearing him, the dragon lifts its great head, its ice-blue eyes unfocused. 

Theon holds his breath, not daring to make a sound, but he need have no fear of that; after a moment, the dragon takes off on unsteady wings, flying back over the sea of smoke and beyond the city itself until it becomes little more than a pinprick in the distance.

“What’s it doing?” Theon asks.

“I don’t know,” Lord Stark says, standing up, “but I don’t mean to wait until it comes back to find out. The white walkers are in the throne room; let’s end this now.”


	110. BRAN VII

It happens just the way he saw it.

He still feels unsteady inside the dragon’s skin, but he lets the dragon pull on its old memories until it’s flying over the city, its wings beating as easily as they did when the dragon was alive. 

He feels another presence before long. 

_ The First, _ he knows, but he pushes it out. He learned to do that, in that millennia that lasted a moment beneath the weirwood trees. The First will try again, so he must be vigilant, but he only needs a few more moments. 

King’s Landing is a smoking ruin below the dragon’s wings. It looks the way Bran imagines Old Valyria must look now, all death and desolation, remnants of a fire that burned too quickly and too fiercely. Yet the city is still and quiet, the handful of survivors (if they can even be called that) running frantically through the fields outside the city walls. Daenerys’s army far outnumbers them, though, and what wights have not been destroyed by the wildfire are no match for the living. 

Through his dragon eyes, he can see Drogon and Rhaegal in the distance; he veers away, flapping his great wings as he makes for the place where his human body, Summer, Ygritte, and Osha are waiting.

Bran the boy and Bran the dragon find each other from far away; as soon as his dragon eyes see the three humans and the direwolf, he descends at a slant, coming for them.

_ Bran, _ he hears faintly; and then, he watches from his dragon eyes as Ygritte shouts at the boy, “ _ Bran _ !”

He slips out of the dragon and into the boy, gasping, “Now.”

Osha hurls her dragonglass spear. 

Bran watches as the dragon’s eyes widen, the white walker inside realizing a moment too late that he’s been led into a trap. The dragon open its mouth, blue flame in the back of its throat...and then the blue flame consumes the whole creature, and he shatters into a million shards of ice.

Osha covers Bran’s body with her own, and when the last of the ice has fallen, she leans back, grabbing his face between her hands. “Is that you in there?” she demands. “Is that  _ all _ of you?”

“It’s me,” he reassures her, reaching up to cover her hands with his. “All of me, and nothing else.”

Tears spring to the other woman’s eyes; she throws her arms around him, holding him close as she lets out a sob of relief. He hugs her back, smiling when Ygritte joins the hug, and then Summer is nosing his way into the pile, demanding to be included. They laugh, petting the direwolf and wrapping their arms around him.

For half a heartbeat, Bran slips into the skin of a raven, taking flight towards the city.

_ Soon. _


	111. LYANNA XXVI

Ned leads the charge into the Great Hall, or what’s left of it. The roof and the north side were completely destroyed by the wildfire, and all that’s left is a jagged ruin covered in smoke. They charge into the smoke, blind but no less determined. 

Lyanna has her dragonglass blade at the ready, but nothing prepares her for the white walker that appears before her. She’s seen them from a distance, of course, but up close, they’re somehow even more terrifying.

She screams, plunging her wrist forward, but the white walker is faster; he catches her wrist, twisting it away from him. His other hand reaches for her throat, but suddenly his blue eyes widen before he shatters into a thousand pieces. When she looks, around, she sees Theon Greyjoy lowering his bow. He takes her elbow, gallantly escorting her through the wall of smoke.

There is so much ice on the floor that Lyanna and Theon skid on it, each gripping their respective weapons as they struggle not to fall. The others come out of the smoke in bursts behind them, each one skidding to a stop as they take stock of the situation before them.

At the far end of the throne room sits the Iron Throne, and on it…

Sits a white walker.

The same white walker, she cannot help but note, that rode the dragon. The same white walker with a head of horns shaped like a crown.

_ The bloody Iron Throne, _ she thinks contemptuously.  _ Even the dead want it. _

There are seven white walkers in the room, lining the walkway to the throne, and before them, a small battalion of wights. 

Ned is already running forward, Ice at the ready. Behind him is Benjen, then Jaime, and then Beric Dondarrion with his flaming sword. Lyanna leads the rest, her own blade raised as she screams.

The wights are quick and relentless, and not even the ice slows them down. Melisandre kneels on the ground, sending flames across the floor; the ice melts, and the wights scream, some of them collapsing while others take to the columns and the air. Lyanna does not even see the one coming towards her until Ned bowls her over, covering her body with his as a wight lands on the ground beside them. It screams in agony long enough for Ned to send Ice through its neck, and then the wight is no more.

They’re still on the ground when a figure emerges from the wall of smoke, throwing down the hood of their robe.

_ Edric Dayne. _

The Sword of the Morning raises the greatsword Dawn, pointing it directly at the white walker on the throne.

“You!” he calls, his voice ringing through the ruin. “Come and face me like a man, you coward!”

“Edric,” Beric shouts, running for the lad, “no!”

But Edric is already charging.

Even Lyanna cannot help screaming, watching the boy, the  _ stupid _ boy, run for the white king. 

He makes it past two white walkers before the third reaches for him; he runs the walker through with Dawn, and the beast shrieks and shatters before Edric continues his race for the iron throne.

The other two are coming for Edric now, but Beric is faster, swinging his flaming sword and shouting. One white walker turns, meeting Beric’s flaming sword with his icy blade; the ice slides through Beric’s belly, and the Lord of Blackhaven falls to the ground.

The white king finally rises, coming down from the throne. He reaches for the greatsword on his back--

\--and a shadow, small and swift, flies from behind the throne.

_ Arya. _

The white king turns, one hand holding her aloft by the throat, the other holding the hand she has raised and ready to strike with her blade.

In a moment that lasts an eternity, the blade falls from one hand to the other, and before even the white king can look down, the girl has pushed the blade through his belly.

The king shatters into a thousand pieces, leaving Arya to fall to the ground. The white walkers shatter, one by one, and so do the wights, until the Army of the Dead is all gone.

It’s quiet in the hall for a long moment, save for everyone breathing. The smoke clears away, and over the ruined city, Lyanna sees the first rays of sunlight.

_ Dawn. _

Slowly at first, and then faster, the survivors run to Arya and Edric, both alive and unharmed. Melisandre, however, pulls Lyanna’s arm, giving her a sad sort of smile. She kisses Lyanna with more passion than Lyanna can remember ever receiving from the other woman. When she pulls away, her eyes are sparkling.

“Goodbye, my queen,” she murmurs.

There are tears in Lyanna’s eyes too. “No,” she whispers. “Please…”

But Melisandre steps away, her red cloak falling to the ground as she walks towards dawn’s light. Her collar with its red ruby comes next, landing in the snow, and then her red hair transforms into white, her dress slipping on a body that is suddenly too small to wear it.

The red priestess falls in the snow, and then disappears entirely. 


	112. ROBB V

The small party gathers in the kitchens, serving themselves a little of everything as they raise toast after toast--to Arya, to Edric, to Bran, to Queen Daenerys, to every single person sitting at the table.

They’d all of them been too tired to make their way down from the Red Keep after the white walkers were all destroyed. Jon and Daenerys flew to them, and some hours later, a very much alive Bran, Summer, and the two spearwives climbed up Aegon’s High Hill to join them. They’d fled the battle in the barrowlands and gone to the Isle of Faces, where Bran had learned how to take down the dragon Viserion.

“But that’s a story for another day,” he’d teased.

Across the ruins of the city, Robb is sure the other men and women are celebrating in their own way. 

They’ll have to come down eventually, he knows. The city will need to be rebuilt, funeral pyres will have to be made, and all of them will have to return home.

_ Home. _

_ Winterfell. _

Robb doesn’t know if he’s ready for that. Perhaps it’s just the newness of their victory, but the thought of going back to Winterfell, settling in his childhood home and trying to carry on as normal...well, he doesn’t think he can do that. He fought in the second Long Night, he killed wights, he saw dragons rise and fall and rise again, he loved a queen.

_ Loves _ a queen.

He had not expected his feelings for Daenerys to be at the forefront of his mind at a time like this, but every time he thinks about home or the future, all he can think about is her. How can he go back to Winterfell and marry another woman now? How can he ever love another person the way he loves Daenerys?

_ I can’t, _ he realizes. He will always love Daenerys. He may grow to love whatever woman he’s meant to marry, but it will never be the same. 

_ I have to tell her. _

He looks around, but there is no sign of the queen anywhere. Jon is missing, too.

While Arya and Edric regale the group with the story of how they planned to take down the white king yet again, Robb slips out the door, passing through an underground servants’ walkway into the Great Hall. 

A fresh layer of snow has fallen since they left the hall, and it coats everything, including the Iron Throne. There’s a haunting sort of beauty to the room in the grey light of day; even with the roof and the stained glass windows gone, the room seems oddly more peaceful than it had in the days before. 

Jon and Daenerys are standing on either side of the throne, speaking in low murmurs; when they hear Robb enter, they share a look before Jon turns and walks down the dais. He claps Robb on the shoulder as he passes, an unreadable look on his face as he leaves his brother alone with the queen.

Robb mounts the dais to better speak to Daenerys. “My queen.”

“Lord Robb.” She gives him a small smile. “It feels strange to be here now, doesn’t it?”

“It does.” He takes a deep breath. “Daenerys, there is something I would speak with you about.”

“And there’s something I would speak with you about, too.” She comes forward, taking his hands in hers. “Robb...I’m carrying your child.”

He stares at her. “You’re...you’re what?”

“I’m carrying your child,” she repeats gently. 

He hardly knows what to say. He almost feels faint. “But you said...you couldn’t have any children.”

“I thought I couldn’t, but I was wrong.” Her eyes are shining. “The witch who cursed me killed my husband and my child, and I believed her. I lay with another man many times, and my womb never quickened, so I continued to believe her. But I realize now...words are wind. She was only lying to further hurt me. Here.” She takes his hand, sliding it under the seam of her furs and pressing it against her belly.

It’s small, but there is an unmistakable roundness there beneath the silk. He draws in a sharp breath, eyes widening. 

“I know this is unexpected,” she says in the same gentle tone of voice. “And I know that we were at war, and you believed I couldn’t have children, so I want you to know that I don’t expect anything from--”

“I love you.”

He doesn’t mean for the words to come out like that, only they do, and Daenerys looks surprised.

“You…?”

He winces, taking her hands in his again. “That’s what I came here to tell you. I love you. And I don’t want to go back to Winterfell and marry some other woman and have children with her. I want to be with you. You, and now our child.”

Daenerys’s eyes shine again. “Do you mean that?”

“With all my heart.” He presses his forehead to hers. “I love you, Daenerys, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

She bites her lip. “It won’t be an easy life,” she warns.

“I know.”

“You would be the Prince Consort, not the King.”

“I don’t want to be a king.”

“I will always be married to the Seven Kingdoms first and you second.”

“As is only right.”

“You cannot rule Winterfell from King’s Landing.”

“Bran will be my father’s heir.”

She smiles. “Do you truly want this?”

He cups her face in his hands. “ _ Yes. _ ”

Her smile widens. “Then marry me, Robb Stark.”

He kisses her. “Yes.”


	113. SANSA IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are--the penultimate chapter! This one will take place a few weeks after the last chapter, and the epilogue will be set a few years from this chapter. There were a lot of things I wanted to include but wasn't able to--I'm debating whether to include those things in an author's note next chapter or just post them on tumblr. Assuming anyone cares lol. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy :)

Sansa has always heard that Dragonstone was a bleak and dreary place, but with the sun shining and the water sparkling and the dragons circling in the air, the island looks inviting. The castle is a bit imposing, certainly, but what great castle isn’t? 

_ They can’t all be Starfall, _ she thinks with a little smugness.

The captain weighs anchor as far as he dares, and the men help them into the boats, rowing them to shore.

She is relieved to see her family already waiting on shore; Father, Robb, Arya, Bran, Jon, Aunt Lyanna, Uncle Benjen, Theon, the wolves...and Edric.

Jeyne doesn’t even wait until they’ve reached shore to hop out of the boat, running to Theon. She knocks him down in the sand with the force of her affection, covering his face with kisses. Theon, predictably, doesn’t seem to mind one bit.

The men hop out and push the boat to shore, where Sansa, Mother, and Rickon make much more dignified exits; Father and Robb help Mother out of the boat, Rickon hops out and runs for Bran and Arya, and Edric comes forward to lift Sansa out of the boat.

She told herself she wouldn’t cry, but she does, burying her face in his shoulder. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, holding her. “I should’ve been there.”

That makes her cry harder. “You were almost  _ killed _ . You couldn’t have known what was going to happen.”

“I know, but...the thought of you giving birth to our son while the Army of the Dead was inside Winterfell’s very walls.” When she pulls back, she sees that he’s crying, too. “I’ll never forgive myself that.”

She touches his cheek. “There’s nothing to forgive, Edric. If you hadn’t been wounded, you wouldn’t have been in King’s Landing, and you and Arya couldn’t have taken down the white walkers together.”

He gives her a small smile. “It was mostly Arya; I just waved a sword around to distract them.”

“Well, I want to hear all about it.” She turns to Torra, who’s been standing respectfully to the side, and takes the baby from her. “But first, I want you to meet your son.”

Edric’s eyes well with emotion as Sansa slips the infant in his arms. “My son.”

“He has your eyes,” she says, her voice rising a little in pitch. “Mother said most babies have blue eyes when they’re born, but since you and I both have blue eyes, I think maybe his might stay that way.” She’s babbling, but she doesn’t think she can bear the silence after a year apart. “And he doesn’t have much hair, but I think it will be blond, and--”

“He’s perfect,” Edric murmurs. “The most perfect thing I’ve ever seen.”

She smiles. “He is, isn’t he?”

“What have you named him?”

She hesitates. “Well...I haven’t yet. I was thinking...Aleric? For your father? But I wanted you to choose,” she adds in a rush, afraid he’ll hate it.

But Edric’s eyes shine with fresh tears. “Aleric is a perfect name.”

Her shoulders sag in relief. “You think so?”

“I do.”

“Well, good, because Allyria insists on calling him Aleric anyway, and she won’t say it, but I know even Mother calls him that when I’m not around.”

Edric laughs. “They have good taste. Aleric Dayne, heir to Starfall.” He looks up, kissing Sansa when she leans forward. His kiss is soft and sweet, and a balm to those many lonely days and nights. 

“Don’t leave me again, not for a long time,” she whispers.

“I won’t.”

“Do you promise?”

He smiles. “I promise.”

.

The wedding is a lavish affair, as all royal weddings should be. Robb marries the queen in a Valyrian ceremony that has not been practiced since the early days of the Targaryen reign. Even in a flowing gown of white, the queen’s belly is visibly round with child.

_ Babies everywhere, _ Sansa thinks, glancing at where Theon’s hand is resting on Jeyne’s own belly. Hers is still flat, but give it a few weeks and there will be some roundness to it.

Fat Walda Umber birthed the Weejon a couple months before Sansa birthed Aleric, and it’s said she’s already carrying the Smalljon’s second child. Even Lady Roslin is heavy with Uncle Edmure’s child.

And even if there aren’t any babies immediately on the way, Sansa knows it’s only a matter of time; her cousin Cassie had sailed from Dorne with her recently-betrothed, Trystane Martell, and Sansa has not missed the way Bran and Shireen Baratheon keep looking shyly at each other from across the hall. Even Myrcella keeps biting her lip and looking at one of the Thenns, who looks back with equal appreciation. 

When Robb and Daenerys have taken each other for husband and wife, the hall rings with cheers, the guests showing their admiration for the Queen and her new Prince Consort, Daenerys beams at them, but Robb cannot seem to tear his eyes from his bride. 

.

They feast in the great hall, louder and fuller than Sansa thinks it has ever been. She eats only little bites of everything, knowing there are going to be so many courses she won’t be able to eat all of them. She and the rest of her family have places of honor at the high table, being the family of the groom and the only family of the new couple. 

It is the nicest day that Sansa can remember having in a long, long time. All of her family is together again, in the same place at the same time. They remember days of old, wonder at the future, mourn the things they have lost, and laugh at the jokes they have to tell, no matter how many times they’ve heard them. 

Sansa excuses herself halfway through the feast to check on Aleric. She does want to see him, but in truth, being surrounded by her family has only reminded her that they’ll all split up again when this is over. She’ll go back to Starfall with Edric, Robb and Jon will go to King’s Landing, Jeyne and Theon will go to Blackhaven, Cassie will move into the Dreadfort with Trystane, Uncle Benjen will go back to the Wall (why, she doesn’t understand, since Queen Daenerys had released the men of the Night’s Watch from their vows, but he’d said he felt happier there), Arya is planning to sail the world, and Mother, Father, Bran, Rickon, and Aunt Lyanna will go back to Winterfell. What if this is the last time they are all together again?

She passes an amorous couple on the way to her room, which turns out to be Arya and Gendry; Sansa moves quickly past them, deciding to unpack that later as she climbs the stairs to the nursery.

Torra is dozing in the rocking chair when Sansa opens the door, her foot rocking Aleric’s cradle while Lady dutifully watches; Sansa gently scoops up her son, carrying him to her room. Lady follows, protective as always over the babe. 

Sansa nurses Aleric from her bed, watching the sun begin its descent over the horizon. It’s so peaceful here right now; you can’t even hear the music from the feast. She could stay like this forever.

The door opens, stirring her from her reverie. It’s Edric, a soft smile on his face when he sees his wife and child.

“How is he?”

“Fine. Just hungry.” 

Edric sits beside her. “And how are  _ you _ ?”

“I’m...I don’t know,” she admits. “I thought I would be happy to see all of my family together in one place again, and I  _ am, _ but…”

“You don’t want to say goodbye to them again.”

She nods, biting back tears. 

“We can visit them anytime,” Edric promises. “And they are of course welcome at Starfall.”

“Yes, but all at the same time?”

He’s quiet for a moment. “I think...with other families, perhaps it’s different. The children grow up, they get married, they move away, and have children of their own. But you Starks...you’re different. You take your strength from each other. What is it you lot are always saying? ‘When the snows fall and the white wind blows…’”

“‘The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives,’” she finishes.

“Yes. The pack survives. You are saying goodbye for now, but I know you’ll see them again. All of them, at the same time, in the same place.” He pauses. “And anyway, Arya has already told me she plans to abuse our hospitality as much as possible, so there’s always that to look forward to.”

She cannot help but laugh. “I suppose.” She pauses. “Did you know...about Arya and Gendry?”

Edric flushes. “Well...yes.”

“You didn’t tell me?”

“She asked me not to,” he says apologetically. “By which I mean she threatened me into silence.”

Sansa kisses him, smiling. “Thank you. For easing my mind about...everything.”

He strokes her hair. “Do you want me to stay, or would you rather be alone?”

“I’d rather be alone just now, thank you.” She kisses him one more time before he leaves, shutting the door quietly behind him.

There is still that sadness, that fear of never seeing her family again...but Edric is right. Her family draws their strength from each other. She will enjoy these handful of days together, and when the time comes to say goodbye, she will be brave.

_ I am a Stark. Yes, I can be brave. _


	114. NED XII

The hunt is slow but merry, the riders taking more pleasure in each other’s company than in the quest for game. 

Ned smiles to see them all together. It has been years since all his children were gathered together at Winterfell. In fact, come to think of it, the last time they were all together here was before Jon went across the Narrow Sea.

Robb, Jon, and Theon lead the party as they always did, with Arya, Gendry, and Edric following close behind. Bran and Rickon ride behind them, side by side as in all things. Lyanna rides beside Ned, and behind them are Benjen and Jaime, the latter of whom is trying to keep a respectful distance from Ned...but in Ned’s opinion, a respectful distance would mean staying at the Wall.

“I don’t like it anymore than you do, but he and your brother are...well, what they are,” Catelyn had said. “You must be kind to Ser Jaime.”

“Over my dead body,” Ned had said, but he’s mustered up enough courtesy when the occasion calls for it. He’d still prefer Jaime stay at the castle with the wives, but he supposes it would be too insulting to ask. 

Without warning, the wolves break apart from the group to race to the bridge up ahead. 

“What’s gotten into them?” Lyanna asks, watching the wolves.

It’s Bran who answers. “They were born at that bridge,” he tells his aunt over his shoulder. “That’s where we found them.”

Lyanna looks at Ned, who nods in surprise. He had nearly forgotten that day. “We rode out to execute a deserter from the Night’s Watch. Said he saw white walkers.” Shame fills him. “I took his head anyway and called him a madman.”

“You didn’t know,” Lyanna says gently. 

He shakes his head. “Still.”

Benjen moves up to join his siblings. “White walkers or no, it was a crime to abandon your post,” he says in a voice as gentle as Lyanna’s. “The Night’s Watch was formed to keep the white walkers at bay; our oaths were to live and die at our posts. He ran away.”

Even so, Ned cannot help but feel as though he did wrong by the lad. Benjen must see it in his eyes, because he adds, “If Jaime Lannister can honor his vows, anyone should be able to.”

“I heard that!” Jaime snaps, and Ned hides a smirk.

When they reach the wolves, they are at the same place by the river where Ned and his sons had found the pups. He half-wonders if they’ll find more pups today, and is almost disappointed when he sees only the wolves, chasing each other and rolling on the ground. 

“I still wonder how she got down here,” Robb says. “That direwolf.”

“Maybe she was always here,” Jon says. 

“Direwolves hadn’t been south of the Wall for two hundred years,” Theon points out, but Rickon snorts.

“How would anyone know? Wolves hunt by night and stick to the shadows. Direwolves could have been wandering the North for two hundred years and no one would know.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Arya retorts. “ _ Someone _ would have noticed--”

“No they  _ wouldn’t. _ ”

“Direwolves are  _ big, _ Rickon, they weren’t just running around the North without anybody noticing for two hundred years.”

“Well, then, how  _ did _ they get south of the Wall?” he demands.

“White walkers came back after eight thousand years, dragons were woken from stone, and you want to know how a direwolf got south of the Wall?”

“Yes,” he says stubbornly. 

Arya rolls her eyes. 

“Come on,” Ned cajoles. “You haven’t seen each other in months, and already you’re bickering?”

“What did you expect?” Robb laughs. 

In truth, Ned doesn’t mind the bickering so much, because it makes things feel normal again, the way they did when Arya and Rickon were both children at Winterfell together. Rickon is still young and he still lives at Winterfell, but Arya has been gone these many months, sailing to Essos and seeing all that the Free Cities have to offer.

She’d taken Gendry with her, which Ned had been less than thrilled about, but as Lyanna had pointed out: who cares?

“She killed the first white walker and saved the world, Ned, I think she should be allowed to go on some adventures,” his sister had argued. “Besides, Gendry’s a good lad, and I have no doubt that he will treat Arya with the respect she deserves.”

It hadn’t been that so much as Ned hadn’t wanted to watch his little girl grow up...but some things, he understands now, are inevitable. He will never not think of her as that wisp of a child running around Winterfell--Arya Underfoot, they used to call her. She is a woman grown now, though, and whether he wills it or no, she is going to do things he doesn’t like. 

“As long as you come home once in a while,” he’d finally,  _ reluctantly _ , told her. 

“Of course I will,” she’d said as if this was obvious. “Winterfell will always be my home. It just can’t be the only place I ever go.”

She’s home now, though, and that’s the important thing. 

All his children are home, and all of his grandchildren, as well. Sansa had brought both her little ones from Starfall, Theon and Jeyne had brought their son Beric (who Ned considers a grandson, even if Theon is not his son by blood), and even Robb had brought his little princess. Daenerys will soon be joining them, flying her dragons north to Winterfell to witness the wedding of Brandon Stark and Shireen Baratheon.

Ned thinks it a good match, and Catelyn had been no less approving. Robert and Lyanna’s marriage had left a bad taste in many mouths, and Bran and Shireen’s marriage may be the balm they need. Stannis had lost Dragonstone when Daenerys reclaimed her seat, but now Shireen will have more land and titles to her name than Stannis could ever have hoped to give her. She is a sweet girl, besides, and she makes Bran happy. 

Sansa, Theon, Robb, and now Bran. Jon, Arya, and Rickon are his only unwed children, but Jon is married to the Queensguard, Arya has Gendry, and Rickon...well, Ned’s seen the way he and little Lyanna Mormont argue, so it’s only a matter of time before the next wedding, really. 

They continue on past the bridge, whistling for the wolves to keep up. Only Lady is missing from the small pack; as usual, she is with Sansa’s children, watching over them. Robb tells him that Grey Wind is protective over Rhaella, too, but the wolf had known she was in good hands with Lady, and besides, he’d missed the wilds of the North more than his sister had.

Though they’ve only been out a few hours, Ned already finds himself missing his grandchildren. They are small, and hardly anything they say is comprehensible, but to him, they are perfect.

In truth, he is eager for Bran and Shireen to have children, because it means he will not have to say goodbye to them after a visit. They will all live at Winterfell together in the Great Keep, where his own children were born and raised.

As they get closer to Winterfell, the talk inevitably turns back to the wedding. His children think they are far enough ahead to go unnoticed, but Ned can hear them offering Bran marriage advice.

“You have to let her win every argument,” Theon is saying wisely. “Even if she’s wrong. It will be worse for you if you try to tell her she’s wrong.  _ Trust me _ .”

“Don’t offer advice unless she asks for it,” Robb says. “Sometimes she just wants you to listen. Learn to know the difference between when she wants your ear and when she wants your advice.”

“Find something nice to do for her every day,” Edric suggests. “Little things to remind her that you love her.”

“Don’t lie about swimming,” Arya says with a flat stare at Gendry. 

“It was  _ one time. _ ”

“We were in the middle of the  _ ocean. _ ”

“I’m only asking for advice from  _ married _ people,” Bran huffs. “You’re not married.”

Arya and Gendry fall suspiciously quiet.

“...are you?” Bran asks.

The pair glance at each other, the truth plain on their faces.

“Arya!” Ned exclaims.

“Fly, Gendry!” Arya shouts, digging her heels into her horse and taking off. Gendry curses and follows her, but the boys are hot on their heels, chasing after the pair and shouting in indignation. 

Ned can feel both of his siblings looking at him with concern, and there is a moment where he thinks his heart might give out on him...but the moment passes and he finds himself laughing.

“Ned?” Benjen asks hesitantly. “Are you...alright?”

“Oh, why not? After all that’s happened, why shouldn’t she marry Robert’s bastard son?”

“You’re not upset?” Lyanna asks with a raised brow.

He shrugs, still chuckling. “It’s as you said; he’s a good lad who will treat her with respect. She’s happy in a time of peace; what more could I ask for?”

“Who are you and what have you done with our brother?” Benjen demands.

Ned only smiles.

.

The children have beaten them back to Winterfell when they arrive, and from the sound of things, Catelyn has just gotten wind of her younger daughter’s marriage. 

Ros greets them at the Hunter’s Gate. “You might not want to go that way,” she warns.

Lyanna pulls her up into her saddle. “Then we won’t. Ale at the Smoking Log, boys?” she asks Benjen and Jaime before thundering back out the gate. The two men follow her, but Ned has no desire to impose on their company. While Catelyn and Arya are bellowing fit to wake the dead, he gives his horse to the groom and slips into the godswood, where he fully intends to wait out the storm. Even after all this time, he fears his lady’s wroth.

The godswood is still and quiet, the trees muffling the sounds of the castle. Ned sits in his seat in the roots of the weirwood tree, taking off his cloak and gloves and staring into the pool before the tree. It makes him feel at peace in a way few things can. 

A twig snaps, and he looks up to see Catelyn coming through the woods. No, he realizes as she comes closer; not Catelyn, but Sansa.

His eldest daughter gives him a wry smile, her daughter in one arm and Beric’s little hand in hers. Aleric and Rhaella cling to her skirts, steadied by a watchful Lady. The little ones smile at Ned and he smiles back; he has only to pat his thighs before his grandchildren come running. Even little Jonquil wriggles until Sansa sets her down on the ground, letting her crawl to him. 

“Thought I might find you hiding in here.”

“I’m not  _ hiding, _ ” he lies.

“Mm-hmm. Well, can you take the children for a bit? I have a feeling Arya’s going to need some support.”

“You’re going to support  _ Arya? _ ” he asks in disbelief, reaching down to lift Jonquil from the forest floor. His youngest grandchild reaches immediately for his beard. 

“I may have already known about her wedding,” she says with a slight flush.

He raises his eyebrows. “And you didn’t tell me?”

“I told her I wouldn’t, by which I mean, she threatened me into silence.”

He smiles. “Sounds like your sister.”

Sansa kneels before her son. “Be good for your grandfather.”

“Yes, Mama.”

“And be gentle with your sister.”

“Yes, Mama.” 

She pushes aside a mop of blond curls, kissing his forehead. “I’ll be back soon,” she tells him and Ned.

“Take your time. We’ll get on just fine, won’t we?” he asks the children. 

Sansa smiles, leaving the children. Lady stays behind, crossing her paws daintily as she watches the children clamber over Ned and Ghost. 

“Who would like to hear a story?” he asks.

“Me, me!”

“Alright.” He shifts Rhaella in his lap. “Are you listening?”

“Yes, Grandfather!”

“Very good.” He looks at the four eager young faces tipped up towards him. “This is a story that begins with a promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you read this and didn't leave an asshole comment, thank you. This was a labor of love and I'm going to miss this fic a lot.
> 
> Feel free to drop me a line on [tumblr](jeynepoole.tumblr.com).


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